


Season 13

by ozonecologne



Series: Codas [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Season/Series 13, Season/Series 13 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: A collection of my season 13 post-episode codas as published on tumblr, including a few unofficial canon!verse ficlets.





	1. 13.01 coda

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/tagged/colognecoda) to find the rebloggable versions of everything you see here! You can also send me a message to be added to the

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY WE’RE BACK, EVERYONE!!! Did you miss me?? I missed you.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/166350401328/1301-coda)

“Can he teleport?”

“What?”

“The kid!” Dean snaps. “Does he have wings?”

Sam stutters out that he doesn’t know, and, right. How would he? Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it comes away bloody - his lip stings where he’s touched it.

He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath in through his nose. He’s trying his absolute hardest to keep it together, but his hands shake regardless.

“We can check along the main roads,” Sam placates, mistaking his silence for frustration. “We’ll be faster in the car than he is on foot, assuming he doesn’t fly, and he can’t have gotten far.”

Dean opens his eyes, but he doesn’t reply. He keeps his back to his brother.

“It’s going to be ok, Dean,” Sam says, only a few feet behind him now, and damn it if that just doesn’t break Dean’s heart all over again.

Soon enough he hears the dirt start to crunch under Sam’s shoes. He has to swerve around Dean to get to the passenger side, his usual post in times of crisis, but Dean lets out a sigh just as he gets his hand on the door.

“Wait.”

Sam turns back to look at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Dean swallows. “I need you to help me with something first.”

 

Castiel’s body is right where he left it, still and cold. He avoids looking at his face at all costs. 

“Grab his legs,” Dean says.

Sam’s footsteps slow the closer he gets, until the toes of his boots hit the soles of Castiel’s shoes and he comes to a complete stop. He stares down blankly, mouth parted and eyes getting mistier by the second. The wings…

“Sam,” Dean snaps.

Sam shakes himself out of it. “Right. Yeah.”

Dean moves around to the crown of Castiel’s head. He isn’t sure what would be worse: cradling Castiel’s head to his chest or having to look up at his dead eyes from his feet. He thinks he might have picked the lesser of two evils by choosing to stand here, but there was really no way to come out unscathed in this scenario. 

He grinds his teeth until he hears something pop and then nods.

The brothers crouch in sync. Dean works his hands up under Castiel’s arms, rustling the coat, and holds his breath. He watches Sam do the same around his legs and steadfastly ignores how Castiel’s hair brushes up against his chin like this, tender and intimate.

“One, two, three.”

They stand together, and Castiel, as always, goes with them. Dean insists on bearing most of the weight.

For all the cosmic might that Castiel had locked inside him ( _my true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler building_ ), he really isn’t that heavy. But they still move slowly, almost painfully so and as a unit, taking short sharp breaths through their noses as they approach the house. 

“Careful,” Dean hisses, as Sam searches behind him for the door.

“I got him,” Sam promises. His voice is a little thick. 

Christ, If Sam starts bawling then Dean’s for sure going to lose it, so he hopes to high heaven that Sam can at least hold it together until they can go to their separate corners.

They lay him down on the dining table by the window, the closest flat surface to the door available. Dean has to take a few steadying breaths as they set Castiel’s body down. Bizarrely, he doesn’t want to let go. But he does, he has to, and his arms tremble with exertion. To steady his shaking hands, he pets down the wrinkled seams of the trench coat where he left an imprint.

But he makes a mistake in doing so: he looks down at Castiel’s face.

“Ok,” Sam says quietly, oblivious to Dean’s trance. “I think there’s a sheet in the trunk.”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam takes his lack of response as his cue to leave, shuffling back the way they came with his head hanging low.

The silence is oppressive on all sides. Not one breeze blows on a day like this; all Dean hears is the quiet lapping of water against the shore, and the sound of blood rushing in his ears. White noise, static, impossible feeling.

Slowly, he pulls the chair at the head of the table out from just behind Castiel’s head. The wooden feet scrape gratingly against the floor - the abrupt sound ruptures any illusion of peace that could have been found in the house. Without looking away from Castiel’s face, Dean carefully lowers himself into the seat.

Laid out in front of him, Castiel looks almost small. The coat balloons out underneath him and one of his pant legs has bunched up where Sam held him. His head lolls marginally off to one side, and Dean finds himself raising a hand without really realizing what he’s doing. Using just the tips of his fingers, he carefully nudges Castiel’s head back to perfect posture, feeling the soft rasp of stubbled skin against his own.

His touch lingers for a moment, since no one is around to judge him for it. He stays like that, connected, until he finds his hand trailing up, slipping back towards his lap and through the dark thicket of Castiel’s hair. He combs through the strands gently, knocking away the fine particles of dirt that have stuck there and styling everything back into place. 

He was so wild when Dean first met him, so haphazard and unkempt, but the years have made something soft of him. Something almost tame.

Dean feels his eyes prick with unshed tears and he withdraws his hand.

“Hey,” Sam says, reappearing with red-rimmed eyes of his own. He holds up a tan sheet, folded into quarters. “This’ll be ok for now, right?”

Dean nods. The roaring in his ears reaches its peak. “Yeah.”

Sam approaches the table. He swallows and darts his eyes away. “You ok?”

Dean sighs. “Give me a second.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Dean takes a deep breath, wipes both his hands on his thighs, and stands. It takes an enormous effort to do so.

He takes one end of the sheet in his hands, and Sam takes the other in his. They shake it out together and drape it over Castiel’s body with as much grace and delicacy as they can afford. Dean blinks down at the formless mound and thinks, with a growing sense of panic,  _This cannot be it. It can’t just end like this for us._

“I brought this, too,” Sam says. He extends a bottle of Jack, which Dean hadn’t noticed him smuggling in. “I figured - ”

“Atta boy,” Dean says. He uncaps it and takes a healthy swig straight from the bottle, coughing as it splashes too fast down his throat. He hands the bottle back over to Sam, who does the same - minus the coughing. Dean has enough sense to just set the bottle down on a side table when it’s passed to him next, just until the next time he’ll need it. 

They’ll be back, after all. This is not  _quite_  the end.

But they do have other things to worry about at the moment. The clock is ticking on their baby time bomb. “Alright,” Dean huffs. “Let’s track this son of a bitch down.”

 

He can’t even say the words. He gets as far as “Cas is - ” before he just can’t go any further. It’s utterly paralyzing, and he can only be thankful that there aren’t any cars on the road but him today. The word gets stuck there in his throat for the duration of their drive towards town and it only loosens once he’s already on the phone with Jody, just as Sam tiptoes into Pirate Pete’s.

“Hey! Dean!” Jody greets. “Long time no - ”

“Don’t really have time to chat, Sheriff,” he says, staring blankly ahead. 

All the joy in her tone gets sucked into the vacuum of Jody’s resulting silence. “What happened?”

She’s using her mom voice. Dean would make fun of her for it if the sound didn’t make him want to curl up next to her. 

“Everyone I know is dead,” he manages to say.

“Well what am I, chopped liver?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but this pitiful little sound is the only thing that comes out, a cross between a sigh and a sob. He clamps his lips shut to keep the next one in.

“Oh, honey,” Jody murmurs.

“Look, can you just - ” Dean huffs. “Can you keep an eye out for Jack Kline? Any recent arrests,  _big_  omens, that kind of thing? Sam and I lost him but we’re looking.”

“I’m on it,” Jody promises. “I got this, Dean.”

Dean nods. “I know you do. You’re good people, Jody.”

“And we’re here if you need us. If you need me.”

Dean hangs up without another word. 

He sits in the driver’s seat for a minute and just holds his phone in his lap. He’s got Jody, he reminds himself, teetering on the edge of a dangerous cliff. He’s got Jody and Alex and Claire and that little family of spitfires can whip up a homemade meal like nobody’s business and make him snort wine up his nose at the dinner table.

_But it isn’t enough._

Dean gets out of the car. These are desperate times, so he swallows his pride and he makes the next call that he has to make. He’s prepared to beg if he has to.

 _This cannot be how this ends,_ he despairs. But his prayers go unanswered, and despite his phone call to the woman he thinks of like his second mom he feels more alone than ever.

He promised himself a long time ago that he would never go back, and this is the first time in ten years that he considers making a deal. Even if he only got a year like last time, it would be worth it. Family’s worth it.

 

“Ok,” the angel says, blasé. Like the life of the boy she holds under her blade means nothing to her. It probably doesn’t. “I’ll let him go. If she shoots you.”

Barker throws him a wary look, but he recognizes the emotion swirling behind it. He’s seen it in his own mom’s eyes before she - well. It’s a look that says,  _I’ll do what I have to to save my son’s life._

For a minute, he considers just letting her. He doesn’t protest. A bullet to the brain really doesn’t sound so bad right now.

But he knows angels, and he knows that they lie (oh boy does he know). As long as she’s alive, these people are dead whether Dean bites it first or not. So while it is tempting, and while he does hate himself a little bit for not taking the easy way out for once, he tries his best to herd the bitch away from the kid. 

“He can do almost anything,” she seethes, once he’s got her in his grip.

Dark hair under his chin. His heart aches, painful in its fragile hope. “Anything?”

The angel under him laughs.

“Oh, sweetie,” she mocks. “ _Almost_  anything. Castiel? He’s dead. All the way dead, because of you.”

_Because of you._

Those words land like a physical blow, and Dean goes slack enough in the shoulders that the angel is able to surprise him with a head butt to the face, folding him to the ground and sprinting down the hallway towards Sam.

What is it that Ishim said to Cas once? Human weakness? Apparently that’s mutual. She played him cheap and easy, she knew just where to strike to get him to crumble.

The only reason that Dean gets up off the floor at all is the sudden rush of fear that he might lose another piece of his family if he doesn’t do something. If Sam gets stabbed by an angel today, forget it. Dean will crawl into Barker’s lap and  _beg_ for a bullet, Jody or no Jody.

He gets there just in time to watch the Satan spawn draw an angel blade out of his chest, and Dean is so ashamed by the sick twist of resentment he feels. He should be terrified that apparently nothing can kill Jack Kline, but instead all he can think is, 

_You lucky fucker._

_If only it were that easy._

_Why you and not him, huh?_

He doesn’t keep it a secret that he hates him, and it’s not entirely for noble reasons.

 

 _Here’s how this is going to go,_  he’d said in the car. Clear and gruff and no room for argument.  _When we get back to house, we start chopping down trees. There should be enough evergreens on the property to get a good pyre stacked, and hopefully it won’t be too wet to catch._

Sam had opened and closed his mouth a few times, asked him if he was sure, but ultimately the decision was Dean’s. So he took Jack upstairs and he left Dean alone with his grief.

Dean circles back around Castiel’s body now, nearly tripping himself on the chair he’d left pulled out at the head of the table. Now that he’s made his decision, a sense of finality hangs in the air, a despondent sort of resignation. He remembers, strangely, the night that Billie busted him and Sam out of SuperMax; all he wanted to do was see Castiel’s face one more time before he gave up his life.

And now, at what appears to be the end, all Dean wants to do is see Castiel’s face one more time before it goes up in flames.

He flicks the sheet back and forces himself to look down at his handiwork, at his lost love, at what faith used to be. He looks until he just can’t anymore, and he flicks the sheet back over, like closing the favorite chapter of a book. The world dims a little when he does.

He takes Sam’s place at the other end of the table and he starts to dress the body. He wants to do this part alone, there’s something sacred in it. It’s his final farewell.

And still he can’t help but think that Castiel deserves better.

A shroud made of torn curtains. A hunter’s funeral. A hole in the chest. What shit, honestly. What utter fucking -

Dean knots the bands around Castiel’s legs as tightly as he can. His knuckles go white with the effort. He allows himself one more look at Castiel’s covered face, from down at his feet as if he were kneeling. And at his feet, he begs for forgiveness.

He rests his forehead against Castiel’s knees, and he vows:

_I will never love again._

Dean pretends not to hear them talking behind him as he pours gasoline over Castiel’s final resting place, but he does.

“Wanna say anything?”

Jack frowns. Dean can hear it in his voice when he says, “I… What do you say?”

Sam hesitates. 

“Thank you,” he says at last. “You say thank you.” 

Dean sags.

“And you say you’re sorry. You hope they’re somewhere without sadness, pain. You hope they’re somewhere better.”

Sam swallows, choked. “You say goodbye.”

When Dean takes his place beside his brother and says, “Well, goodbye, Cas,” he means all of those things and more, all the things he never got a chance to say in person.

And just like all tragedy for the Winchesters, it begins and ends with a fire.


	2. 13.02 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/166595649528/1302-coda)

“Dean! Oh my - ”

Dean storms right past Sam and dumps Jack’s bloody knife in the sink. He doesn’t look at him as he turns on the water, but it doesn’t matter. Sam’s already up out of his seat and crowding against him along the counter.

“I knew you were in bad way after Cas but, Dean, I thought you were dealing - ”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not  _mine_ ,” he snaps, turning over his shoulder. Bright red blood pools in the sink as the faucet rushes over it.

Sam, still gaping, manages to narrow his eyes as his alarm fades away. “What did you do?”

Dean frowns. “Nothing. Why do you think that I - ”

Sam sags then, his body collapsing into itself all at once before he pulls himself to his full height. His eyes melt into that deplorable sad puppy dog look, the kind of look that’s going to turn into guilt some day. “Oh no. Oh, Jack…”

Dean shakes his head. “He’s fine, Sam. Obviously. You know damn well something like this couldn’t do any serious damage.”

Just like that, the puppy look slips away. Sam  _glares_. His lip curls and his eyes narrow and he leans forward in the meanest way that Dean has ever seen from him. For a second he actually wonders if Sam’s going to hit him.

“You think I only care if he’s  _hurt_? You think - Dean, that kid is  _suicidal_  now. He’s not even a week old and he - ”

Sam suddenly cuts off and wipes his face with his hand. 

“You know what?” he says. “You’re seriously messed up, man. You have a problem, and -  _don’t_ look at me like that - and you need to stay the hell away from Jack from now on.”

Dean lets the water run. Low and dark, he murmurs, “I have a problem?”

“Yeah, Dean, you do,” Sam snaps. “You didn’t see him out there, terrified and alone. He thinks you  _hate_ him. I’m starting to think that maybe  _you’re_ the one with no soul around here.”

He leaves the room, stomping away in a huff, and Dean knows that he’s headed off to Jack’s room. He’s going to clean up the mess, he’s going to try and soothe all the wounds that aren’t visible. Sam’s good like that, and he just doesn’t know when to quit.

Dean stares down into the drain, pink-dyed water circling the abyss. 

“I don’t have a fucking  _problem_ ,” he insists, but it’s only to an empty room.

He shuts off the water and leaves the knife in the sink.

* * *

Dean jolts awake from a nightmare at four o’clock in the morning. The hotel room had been just close enough to make him remember another one with cartoons playing in the background, only he can’t remember if it was Scooby Doo or Loony Tunes or what, Castiel’s sad blue eyes looking up at him from the bedspread and telling him,  _I’m afraid I might kill myself -_

Dean jabs his knuckles into his eyes and tries his best to hold back a scream.

His neck hurts from where he’s slumped over the kitchen table. He left all the lights on before he passed out here; his eyes are gritty with it. He shakes all over and barely feels a thing when he scrambles up out of his seat and knocks his knee against the table so hard that it’s bound to leave a bruise.

He throws the fridge open and digs around for a second, looking for something, anything to take this edge off. They’re out of beer because of course they are, they’ve been away from home for the last few days. He leaves the fridge open and moves to the cabinets, knocking bottles around until he can find something strong. Anything to wipe that look off of Castiel’s face -

Dean coughs and sputters as the whiskey goes down too fast, eyes screwed shut against the burn. He blindly spits into the sink and takes a few shallow breaths, gripping the counter tight with one hand and the neck of his bottle with the other.

When he opens his eyes, he’s looking down at Jack’s butcher knife. There’s still some blood stuck to it, caked in the juncture where the blade meets the handle. It’s a real challenge to fight off the resulting wave of nausea.

 _You have a problem,_ the Sam in his head says. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean tells him. 

He takes another drink.

* * *

Sam drops his tablet under Dean’s nose one morning with a clatter. He walks away before Dean has a chance to say anything.

Groggily, Dean thumbs through the text on the screen. He catches the name  _Moseley_ and sits up a little straighter. “Is this - ”

“Get out.”

Dean blinks. He looks up at Sam, who has moved to the farthest possible end of the room, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. “What?”

Sam clenches his jaw. “Go work this case.”

“You’re not coming?”

Sam just scoffs.

Dean’s heart twinges painfully in his chest. 

“Fine,” he sniffs. “I hope you and your new pet have a nice slumber party while I’m gone. You teach him how to braid hair yet?”

Sam walks out of the room without another word. Back to Jack, no doubt.

Dean grits his teeth, then turns around and punches the wall. “Son of a  _bitch_.”

Donatello, who has been holed up in the library since he got here, waves helpfully as Dean storms by on the way to his room. 

“Going somewhere?” he asks, too cheerful.

“Mind your own business,” Dean snaps, and hurries past him.

Donatello blinks, then follows. 

“Jesus Christ, can’t anybody in this fucking family just leave me the  _hell_ alone?” Dean thunders. He doesn’t stop, tearing through the bunker’s hallways at a breakneck pace. His hand throbs, still raw.

The prophet, unburdened by feelings or fragile ego anymore, only frowns at Dean’s outburst. 

“Is that what you really want?” he asks. “To be alone?”

The question knocks Dean sideways so hard that he bumps into the wall when he turns the next corner. Stunned, he freezes right there in the center of the hallway.

He turns back to look at Donatello. One gray eyebrow lifts up towards his crazy bushel of hair.

“Because I think,” Donatello says contemplatively, no soul and no subtlety, “That you already are.”

A vice slowly starts to tighten across Dean’s chest. His breath stalls and his vision gets blurry with the lack of oxygen. He shakes his head and stumbles away, fingers trailing along the walls just to be sure that something will keep him upright.

He feels marginally better once he’s behind his bedroom door, slumped against the wood and safe in the cool, familiar space, unlit.

It’s only as he starts to pack that he realizes there are tears in his eyes.

* * *

Dean clutches the strap on his duffle bag with his head down as he shuffles down to the garage, and he can’t help but be reminded of his high school days. Whenever Dad would move them to a new place and Dean would have to start all over again, navigate unfamiliar halls and pretend like he didn’t care that the kids were staring at him or his torn clothes, his too-big jacket or his black eye or whatever, nervously squeezing the strap of his backpack until his knuckles went white all the while.

 _You got a problem?_ he’d growl.

Dean literally runs right into Jack, lost in his own thoughts as he is. Jack looks startled for a moment, but then he dips his eyes when he sees who it is.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and swerves around Dean.

Dean watches him as he goes, the slope of his shoulders, hopelessly hunched. Sam has obviously been taking care of him: he’s wearing Dean’s fluffy interview sweater, the extra soft one that he never admits to liking.

“Uh,” Dean says.

Jack stops. He turns, a question in his eyes.

Dean frowns. “Don’t do… anything stupid while I’m gone,” he says, like he has any right to tell him what to do.

Jack is an impenetrable shell. His face remains blank as he replies, “I won’t.”

Dean’s just about ready to slink away when Jack speaks again.

“I just wanted to do the right thing,” he blurts, though his voice is strained and weary. He bites his lip like he would take the words back if he could. “I just wanted…”

_I just wanted… I needed to come back here with a win for you. For myself._

Dean shakes his head free of the memory. It’s hard to do when Jack’s face looks exactly the same.

“Yeah, well,” Dean coughs. “That counts as something stupid.”

Jack hangs his head. He nods.

“Drive safe,” says Jack, defeated, before he turns and disappears down the hallway.

Dean purses his lips. His fingers twitch on his bag strap. 

He has to take a moment to collect himself when he finally gets to the car. He sits behind the Impala’s steering wheel for a long time, feeling the leather, the passenger’s seat empty but for his gun and his phone.

Dean might have a problem, but he  _definitely_  has a secret: he cares about Jack. 

It’s bad. It leaks through the cracks in his armor at the least convenient times. 

It’s just… His heart swells painfully when he talks, when he moves like he’s trying not to break anything, when he says shit like “drive safe” even though Dean doesn’t deserve any of it. His big, stupid sad eyes, his excitement over new and trivial things, the way he -

The way he tries so hard to be good.

Cas really would have liked him. Cas believed that good things do happen, and as long as he was around, good things sometimes  _did._

But now Cas is dead, and Mom is gone, and with them died hope. And faith. And all good things. So Dean just doesn’t have it in him anymore to get his downtrodden hopes up for yet another miracle.

 _And that,_ Dean thinks as he twists the key into the Impala’s ignition,  _is my fucking problem._


	3. 13.03 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY BOY IS BACK THIS WEEK AND THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/166844360713/1303-coda)

“Now you might be able to forget about that, but I CAN’T!”

Dean’s words pierce the air like a gunshot. They splinter against Sam’s face like shrapnel that leaves an obvious wound, fresh and deep.

“You can’t,” Sam repeats, a little softer, more like a question. “You can’t?”

“What part of this don’t you get, you fucking  _robot_ ,” Dean snaps at him, voice cracking. He can barely meet his brother’s eyes anymore in the bloody aftermath. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

He walks away without another word, and Sam is too shocked to go after him. Buffering, still. Processing. He feels like he just got slapped across the face, but Dean didn’t even try to lay a hand on him.

He’s distantly aware of a minor altercation in the hallway – “Damn it, get out of my way” – but he doesn’t do anything about it.

Sam walks back to his seat at the war table like the robot Dean seems to think that he is: unfeeling, stiff, cold. He sits and stares blankly at his laptop screen for a while, hands resting limply on his thighs. A tingling starts at the back of his skull; a niggling idea that won’t leave him alone.

 

He didn’t get to see much of it when he was younger, because Dad tried to keep that stuff from him for as long as possible and Dean always fancied himself the keeper of Winchester family secrets, but once he finally had the time and space to do so Sam sat down with his father’s journal and leafed through the pages. In these most recent years Sam has found a surprisingly great need for it and likes to keep it close.

He only thinks about it now because he had brought John into their argument, unearthed like a buried hatchet that he will continue to sheath in his brother’s back until the day they die for good. At the very beginning of his small and treasured volume, tucked into the front leather flap all yellowed and spotted and creased, are his father’s words. His father’s grief. 

[ _December 11_ ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pdf-archive.com%2F2014%2F09%2F28%2Fwinchesters-journal%2Fpreview%2Fpage%2F17%2F&t=MzJmMDExYzMyNzliNzhkZTJkYTdlNDBiOTIwZTYyYTM4NTZkMGM3ZSxyRFA3VGhpeg%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166844360713%2F1303-coda&m=1) _:_  
_I close my eyes and she’s there. It always starts the same, I’m seeing her as she was before that night, beautiful and happy and alive. And I’m not seeing it, I’m living it, it’s like I’m there… it’s so real, I know I can reach out and touch her. And so I do… I reach out… and suddenly I’m back to that night, to the blood and the fire and Mary, Mary is on the ceiling, and how did she get on the ceiling… she can’t be on the ceiling…  
_ _Here’s the weird part. When I wake up, sweating and panting… I swear there is something there. I can feel it, hovering over me, over my boys. It’s watching, it’s waiting, I think it’s even mocking me… You couldn’t stop this. You couldn’t keep her safe. You can’t keep them safe._

Sam traces the familiar lines of the page again and again with his fingertips, slow and pained. There are still spots of discoloration on the paper from an assault of teardrops. Sam never saw his father cry as a kid, not even once, but he finds the evidence here, hidden away like some shameful secret.

“I can’t,” Dean had told him. Exploded at the seams with it up into his face. “I can’t.”

[ _December 25_ ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pdf-archive.com%2F2014%2F09%2F28%2Fwinchesters-journal%2Fpreview%2Fpage%2F19%2F&t=M2ExNDg0NTFkYzY1ODBkZDRjZjI1MWVhMjE2MzE3MDUxYmQ2NThjMyxyRFA3VGhpeg%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166844360713%2F1303-coda&m=1) _:_  
_Didn’t sleep again last night.  
_ _It’s not right that she’s not here, and that’s all I could think about today. I’m so angry I can barely see straight – I want my wife back._

Sam swallows against the lump in his throat. It never gets easier, reading these early entries. It always kindles an ache that burns at his core.

But he’s still grateful to have them, because he’s a robot. Because he does not feel the same way about Castiel’s death that his brother does, and these words are his only clues to unraveling the knots in their family.

[ _December 29_ ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pdf-archive.com%2F2014%2F09%2F28%2Fwinchesters-journal%2Fpreview%2Fpage%2F20%2F&t=OGIzZjkwZDM2MTFlY2I4ODVmYzA3ODdhMmU2MjU3NzVhNjRiZTRlMSxyRFA3VGhpeg%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166844360713%2F1303-coda&m=1) _:  
_ _I don’t know how to talk to him about it. He’s not even five years old. Most kids his age don’t even have a clear idea what death is, and he’s seen it up close and personal. What do I say to him? How old does he have to be before I tell him the truth?_

Sam decided at an early age that he would never be like his father. But as he sits alone in the bunker’s war room now, holding that very man’s most powerful doubts between his palms, he almost has to laugh at the irony. 

 _What do I say to him?_ John had written.

 _What do I say to him?_ Sam asks himself.

 

Jessica, Jess had been. She. It was the first and best relationship he’d ever had. And then he lost her, and he was so angry and so guilty and so sad for so long. But even he can acknowledge that it isn’t quite the same. Sam had known Jess for not even four years. They were young and their lives were uncomplicated. Sam had to deny half of himself just to be able to devote himself to her and the life he’d wanted to give her. He’s certainly not a god damn robot thank you but it was so long ago and so much has happened in the meantime that he barely even remembers the feeling of her arms around him.

Castiel was not Dean’s Jessica. Sam’s experience with love falls short, a series of  _close enough_ s and  _could have been_ s, and he doesn’t know how to make up for it.

Castiel was not Dean’s Jessica. Castiel was Dean’s Mary.

 

Sam shuts his father’s journal, holding his hand over the cover to ground himself. When he finally dares to take a breath in, his fingers tremble faintly against the leather.

This is the first time that Sam allows himself to consider that Dean might not only be devastated in a way that Sam literally cannot relate to, but also that he might be  _afraid_. “Can’t” is an admission of powerlessness, a confession of a failure to control, and Dean has never liked either of those. If even Castiel, bad ass mother fucker of the lord and “everyone except me” Winchester, can be killed right in front of Dean’s eyes – then who’s next? What lasts?

Can love even survive in a world like theirs?

It’s the kind of loaded question that one holds to their temple. 

 

Sam slides John’s journal away from him on the table and puts his head into his hands. He started the day promising himself that he would stick to his guns and stay angry at Dean for how he’s treated Jack, but just like always he can feel himself slipping. He can’t ever stay mad at Dean for long and especially not when he’s hurting.

He does have to admit that he isn’t entirely blameless for his brother’s suffering. He gave Jack a room in the same corridor as Dean’s. This is the guy that let Crowley live under the same roof as Kevin Tran for the remainder of his very short life. He keeps making the same mistakes when it comes to these things. Just this morning, he nearly made a Nephilim cry because he pushed him too hard. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” he had bemoaned, without really realizing at the time how childish that sounded.

Maybe he has also pushed Dean… too far. Past the point of what he can reasonably handle while he grapples with something as insurmountable as losing the love of his life.

He gets up from the table. He leaves the journal behind and he heads to the door with a new plan of action.

 

Jack is predictably huddled against the wall, with his knees drawn up to his chest. 

“Hey,” Sam says quietly. “How much did you – ”

“All of it,” Jack mumbles. 

Sam winces. “Dean’s hurting, bad, and that’s warping his sense of reality a little bit. Cas dying wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause that.”

“I didn’t lie,” Jack insists. “I never lied to him.”

“I know,” Sam says.

Jack bites his bottom lip. It’s going to get chapped if he keeps that up, and then Sam will have to explain lip balm. “I’m going to move the pencil,” he announces.

Sam nods. “I know,” he says again.

 

He comes to a stop outside Dean’s closed bedroom door.

He knocks, but no one answers. He knocks again, a little louder, but there’s still no answer. He hesitantly tries the knob and is relieved to find that it’s unlocked. 

Another unbidden image returns to Sam’s head as he steps into his brother’s room, which he shares with no one but his own thoughts.

[ _1983_ ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pdf-archive.com%2F2014%2F09%2F28%2Fwinchesters-journal%2Fpreview%2Fpage%2F8%2F&t=YmRjY2Q2ZGZkYTMwZDhlOTg5NTMzYTI3NzIwZDA5ZjFkYzhlNzU4MyxyRFA3VGhpeg%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F166844360713%2F1303-coda&m=1)  
_November 16:_  
_Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side – or from his brother. Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night._  
_Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to._

Sam has cried for Castiel. He has. But Dean, his big brother, is drowning on his own here and it’s only ever Sam that has been his life raft. 

It’s dark in the room, but with the strip of light flooding in from the hallway Sam can see that Dean is laying on his bed with his headphones on, Charlie’s pink iPod loose in his hand. Sam knocks over something like 11 empty beer bottles on his way through the door, and the noise is enough to cause Dean to look up. 

His eyes are wet.

“Um,” Sam says. “Hey.”

Dean says nothing at first, just manages a weak glare. He does take the headphones off, though. “What.”

A flash of anger rises up in Sam’s throat, but he forces it back down. No more yelling today. Soft love only. Tough love can wait.

“I’m, um. I’m not sorry for asking you to have my back on this. I still think Jack deserves to be saved, just like I did and just like  _you_ did once upon a time.”

Dean doesn’t even blink.

“But,” Sam says, rocking onto his heels. “I’ve been a jerk about a lot of other things. And if I want you to back me up on stuff that matters to me, I need to back  _you_ up on the stuff that matters to you.”

Dean doesn’t say anything as Sam sits down on the edge of the bed. The toe of Dean’s work boot brushes up against his arm.

“So, I just wanted you to know that I’m here,” he says. “You’re right; I don’t know what you’re going through with Cas. And that sucks. So tell me what I can do to make it better.”

Dean shakes his head. “You can’t. You can’t do anything.”

Sam grinds his teeth. “Don’t believe in ‘can’t,’” he admits. “I can do something, even if it’s just cooking dinner two nights a week.”

“No amount of emotional trauma is enough to get me to let you near the stove.”

Sam snorts. “Jerk.”

Dean hesitates. “Bitch,” he says, and some of the tension does ease from his shoulders.

Clumsily, Sam careens over into Dean’s chest, arms thrown wide across his body.

“Sammy – ”

“Take the hug, Dean,” Sam gripes.

Dean relents, relaxes into his pillow, and closes his eyes. 

And for just a minute, everything hurts a little less. A little bit of light shines through the darkness.

 

Elsewhere, in a deeper darkness, Castiel draws himself up to his full height. The persistent burning beneath his ribs has less to do with Lucifer’s killing blow and more to do with an undeniable pull towards home. Magnetism, longing, unyielding. 

“Dean?”


	4. 13.04 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/167077760433/1304-coda)

This weird… feeling follows him around for the rest of the day. Just out of nowhere.

It’s probably left over from his talk with Sam. His guilt eases a bit. He feels impossibly lighter – even though their situation has not changed, everything is just as hopeless as it was yesterday, and yet, in the middle of the day and for no real reason at all, Dean feels better. Like something has just gone right with the world, even though that’s impossible.

He leaves Sam by the telescope and Jack in the kitchen, where the poor kid stood stock still until he was sure that Dean had left the room, and decides to go somewhere else, somewhere he knows he won’t be bothered.

The archives.

He looks around the corner behind him, and then down the hallway in front of him. He looks behind him one more time, and it’s with this weird feeling buzzing around in his chest and only when the coast is clear that he unzips his inner jacket pocket.

_“Here,” Mia had said, holding out her hand._

_Dean pursed his lips. “What’s that,” he grumbled, though the answer was obvious._

_“My card.” Mia’s hand shook where she held out the small white business card, but she squared her shoulders and held her ground. “I know you don’t believe in it, but if you ever change your mind. If you ever get tired of being angry. You let me know.”_

_Dean looked at her, looked back at the card. He knew exactly what his dad would say, and probably did say a few times in those early years: screw you and your mind games._

_But despite what Sam thinks, Dean is not his father. So he takes Mia’s card._

And now, alone in the underground and overwhelmed by something he doesn’t fully understand, he uses it.

“Mia Vallens,” the voice on the line answers. Her personal number.

“Hey, uh. Mia.” Dean clears his throat. “It’s Dean Winchester.”

Mia’s voice isn’t smug when next she speaks. She doesn’t say, “I told you so,” She doesn’t say, “I knew it,” she doesn’t even say, “I’ve been expecting your call.”

All she says is, “How can I help you today, Dean?”

 

There are tons of blank notebooks in the Men of Letters archives. Tons. Dean grabs a few at random while he stays on the phone, ignoring the ones with leather covers in favor of the canvas ones with thick, pressed paper. He carries them gingerly back to his room and stows them under his bed.

He doesn’t touch them for hours. He doesn’t even look at them. He rolls his eyes every time he catches himself chewing his thumbnail and thinking about them.

_“Were you being sarcastic in there?” Mia asked. “When you admitted you journal.”_

_Dean reflexively rolled his shoulders. “Do I really look like the kind of guy that sits down and – ”_

_“Dean,” Mia interrupted. “This is only going to work if you’re_ honest _.”_

_Dean blew out a breath, tracing the spine of a random book at chest level. “Ok, yeah. Sometimes. I never save them or anything. But sometimes I write stuff out. When it gets…” His breath catches. “My, uh. My dad used to keep a journal.”_

_“I remember. Sam said that earlier.”_

_“Well, it didn’t help him very much.”_

_Mia made a considering sound on the other end of the line. “You should start again. And don’t throw them out this time, ok? You never have to read them, but just… hold onto them.”_

_“Maybe.”_

Dean sits at the edge of his bed now pondering the empty pages. He already knows that he’s going to do it. He knows. But god, where does he even begin? What does he even start with? The first page of his new therapy journal might as well say, “It all started when I was born.”

He winces and rubs at his chest with his knuckles, right along the ridge of his sternum. That weird weightless feeling is still following him around, stubborn and annoying as hell. He feels like bursting into laughter, which is probably a sign that he’s finally cracked.

The very legitimate fear that Dean’s sanity is lost forever is what finally motivates him to pick up an empty journal, and a chewed-up ballpoint pen.

The ink comes out blue.

 

It’s, like, the very next day that Sam announces he’s taking Dean on a hunt, just the two of them, like old times, to get his mind off things. It’s nice, the bonding time. It is, especially since they haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately. 

Sam eventually matches Dean’s apology with one of his own. It’s unnecessary, but appreciated. This whole “using your words” thing is new for the both of them.

There are still things that he doesn’t talk about with Sam. Not even on the long drive back to the bunker when all they do for hours is sit side by side in contemplative silence, not even when Sam very obviously catches Dean writing in their shared motel room late at night by the light of the desk lamp or the TV or even by the moon.

Progress, by nature, is slow.

_Reading his diary over the phone is, was, and will be probably the most embarrassing act ever committed by Dean Winchester. But he got through it, clumsily and red faced, and Mia didn’t say anything for a very long time. It was a short entry, sure, but Dean still bounced his knee and bit his nails with anxiety when his mini tirade was only met with silence._

_“It wasn’t just your mother, was it?”_

_“What?”_

_Mia hummed. “You’re grieving for your mother, but not like Sam is. There’s very clearly something else eating at you, something that he doesn’t understand or that you can’t talk to him about.”_

_Instead of answering, Dean picked at his bedspread and kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his ankles crossed. His feet were bare; he clenched his toes._

_“It was sudden, you said,” Mia continued. “I can only assume that it was a hunter’s tragedy. And that your mother wasn’t the only one caught in the crossfire.”_

_Dean sucked in a breath. “I lost – we.”_

_“Honesty, Dean.”_

_He swallowed. Closed his eyes and grit his teeth. “Castiel,” he says. It was the first time he’d said his name aloud in what feels like years._

_He could almost hear Mia’s smile over the phone. “Ok. Here’s your homework for this week: write about him.”_

“What’s that?”

Dean snaps the journal closed. “Nothing.”

Jack frowns down at him. “Was that the good kind of lie, or the bad kind?”

Dean only replies, “Just buzz off, kid.” He pulls his journal closer and ends up sticking it under his thigh, feigning nonchalance. He pulls his laptop closer instead and halfheartedly starts searching for cases.

Jack leaves him alone. A good little soldier, following orders.

Dean rubs at his eyes with his hands. Shit, he really is turning into his dad. He swore he never would, and yet –

And there it is again, without fail. That dumb giddy feeling, exploding outwards like a sunset beneath his ribcage, casting all of him in head-to-toe warmth. For a brief moment, all the tension Dean has been carrying around fades out of him. The peace lasts for exactly one breath, one amazing second where a tiny voice inside convinces him that everything is ok, and then it fades. Like an interrupted signal, like radio waves getting caught in the wrong transmission. Dean shakes his head free of the sensation, so fleeting that he can almost convince himself he imagined it.

He twirls his pen around in his fingers and keeps clicking through articles on the Internet, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Hey,” he calls out, just before Jack is totally lost within the maze of the bunker’s hallways. He catches himself on the doorframe and turns, looking expectantly towards Dean.

Dean purses his lips. “You haven’t been feeling any… I don’t know. Energy spikes lately, have you?”

Jack frowns and then tilts his head, as if listening for something. “No. What kind of energy?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. He waves a hand. “Forget it. Never mind.”

Jack keeps standing there for a while. Dean’s still playing with the strategy that if he just ignores him, he’ll go away, but Jack in fact does the opposite. 

He comes closer and tells Dean shyly, “I got to see my mom.”

Dean shakes his head. “No you – ”

“I did. Mia showed me,” Jack insists.

Dean shakes his head. “Not really your mom,” he tells him, forcing down the bile building in his throat. “Just a trick.”

“I know it wasn’t really – ” Jack sighs. “It still helped. It did.”

Dean clears his throat. It takes him a minute to realize that what’s making him so uncomfortable is actually  _jealousy._ “Yeah, well, that’s great for you. Hurray.”

Jack shakes his head. “Why are you so…? I’m just trying to help. I don’t understand why you don’t want to be helped.”

_You don’t think you deserve to be saved?_

Dean freezes. He doesn’t even pretend to be ignoring Jack now, he just stares at the flat, reflective surface of the table.

Jack fidgets. “Dean?”

“I do.”

Jack frowns. “You do… what?”

“I do want to be helped,” Dean admits. Quietly, like it’s shameful. “I’m working on it.”

Jack narrows his eyes. Dean finally looks up to meet them.

Jack clears his throat, flustered. All that time spent staring at Dean and now’s the one time his eyes decide to settle anywhere but on him. “Well, that’s… good.”

Dean nods. Jack opens his mouth to say something more, but at the last second he seems to change his mind. He fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt and says, “Goodbye,” and leaves, just like that.

Dean watches him go. He slowly pulls his journal out onto the table again.

It feels like a tiny star’s being born in his heart.

 

He has a voice recording.

The voice mail, which he refuses to let anyone know that he calls sometimes, just to hear his voice. “Make your voice… a mail.”

He has his voice in the palm of his hand, every day.

_Sitting in his room talking to Mia was a lot like sitting in the dark of that confessional. No one to see him or judge him, but that freedom of admission still eases him._

There’s – there’s things, there’s… people. Feelings that I… I want to experience differently than I have before. Or maybe even for the first time.

_Dean shook his head. “There’s a lot that I left unsaid, you know? I never told him – I never – ”_

_Mia saved him from having to go on. “Dean,” she said softly. “You know what I do. What people ask of me.”_

_Dean swallowed. “Yeah. The catharsis.”_

_“Right.”_

_Dean shook his head. “I’m not… I don’t think I’m ready for that.”_

_“That’s fine,” Mia told him. “But think about it, maybe. If that’s something you think that would help you move on – to tell Castiel all that you feel you didn’t when he was alive – I’d be more than happy to help you with that.”_

_“I know,” Dean said. “And, uh. Thanks.”_

_“That’s my job.”_

_Dean laughed. “Which I don’t pay you for.”_

_“You gave me my life back. And you let me keep living it. We’re square.”_

_With a nod, Dean flicked off his desk lamp and cast his room in shadow._

Dean turns his phone around in his hands. He has Castiel’s voice. Through the telephone, through the window of a technological confessional, Dean could finally say what he needed to. He could put it all into words, he doesn’t even have to look him in the eyes when he says, “I love you back, you total fucking bastard,” for the first time.

He could do it. He could ask Mia to – to do that for him.

It worked for Jack, right? Jack said that it helped him. And he does want to be helped. He doesn’t want to feel like this anymore, low and angry and tired.

Except that he doesn’t, not all the time, not anymore. When he finds himself dipping like this, it flares again. The tiny star cushioned between his lungs. 

It’s absolutely maddening – this one little piece of him that just won’t let him move on. Maybe it’s self sabotage. Maybe it’s faith. Dean doesn’t know what the fuck it is.

“What the fuck  _are_ you?” he grumbles, glaring down at his chest.

Nothing happens, obviously. But he still feels unsettled, he aches and he feels himself being pulled by some sort of invisible force so he seeks out the same comfort that he usually does.

He calls Castiel’s cellphone.

He waits the usual number of rings, waits for the inevitable beep, waits for his meager “make your voice a mail.”

But instead of all that, the line clicks.

“Hello?”

Stunned, Dean blurts out, “Uh. Hello?”

“Dean?”

Dean sits up, ramrod straight. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Dean,” the voice laughs on the other end of the line. “Dean. Oh, thank god.”

“I’m god damn serious,” Dean mutters. “Mia, if this is you somehow – ”

“I don’t know who Mia is,” he says. “This is – You changed your number. Dean, your number changed and I’m making my way to Kansas but…”

Dean gapes. He opens and closes his mouth a few times and just stares at nothing.

This is not happening.

Oh, but it is. Because that wonderful, familiar voice is now asking, “Dean, how did you know? How did you know to call?” right into his ear, tender and shaky with relief.

Dean rubs a slow circle into his chest, where his heart beats rapidly and his very bones seem to burn.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I just did,” he says. “Cas, is that… is that really you?”

“Yes,” he promises. “ _Yes_.”

Dean hears him say it. His whole body  _sings_  with it, with Castiel’s “yes,” and he knows it to be true.


	5. 13.05 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/167337279448/1305-coda)

The sun sets early this time of year. The sky starts to change color as Dean pushes the Impala along towards Meadows’ house of horrors; the violent orange of the sunset gleams across the chrome lining the windshield and gilds everything over. Dean glances away from the road for a second when the glare hits him in the eye. Sam had his head turned towards the window, but he looks over when he feels Dean do so, too.

“So, uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “You ended up at the Clam Dive after all.”

Dean’s mouth quirks for a second, but it doesn’t last. “Mm.”

Sam taps his fingers against the door. “Worth the four and a half stars?”

Easing the Impala around a corner plunges the driver’s side into shadow. Dean ticks his head away from the light. “Don’t let the name fool you. That is one classy joint.”

Sam scoffs. “I’m sure.”

Dean doesn’t reply. The sun dips lower on the horizon.

“So, you’re. You’re working through it, then,” Sam says, unable to stay quiet. “Business as usual. It’s… working.”

Dean clenches his hands on the steering wheel and hopes that Sam doesn’t notice. The first stars of the night have started to come out, visible just beyond the stained-purple clouds.

“Yeah. See? Totally fine.”

He doesn’t tell Sam that most of the time he spent at the Clam Dive was at the bar. He doesn’t tell Sam that he only sat by the stage once he was drunk enough to start seeing double. He doesn’t tell Sam that he didn’t have any fun even though he tried all his old tricks and every cheesy line in the book and even pushed some of his boundaries a little farther than usual. He doesn’t tell Sam that he drove the Impala full-blown  _wasted_ and didn’t even  _care_ because why would it even  _matter_  if he ended up –

He doesn’t tell Sam about the death sentence he keeps in his duffle bag. He doesn’t tell Sam that he tried to crawl into bed once he got back to the motel but the thought of doing so made him so lonely that he’d actually rather sleep on the floor.

Point is: there’s a  _lot_  he doesn’t tell Sam.

His little brother feels guilty for not being able to give Dean what he needs when he’s hurting. Him trying to make up for the loss they’ve both endured and treating Dean like he’s delicate almost hurts more than when Sam was pissed off and ignoring him.

So he keeps his mouth shut and he doesn’t tell Sam shit about how he feels anymore.

There’s a reason that Mia Vallens’ grief counseling technique involved writing in a journal: giving feeling form makes it real. And something that is tangible, something that is real, is harder to push down and work past. If Dean explores the things that he does not say to Sam with any depth, the chance of him ever being ok again goes right out the window. It’s shot. It’s over for him.

Kids like Sean? They need him operational. And holding it in, acting like things are normal, is the only way that is ever going to happen.

“If you say so,” Sam says, settling into his seat.

Dean nods.

The sun goes down.

 

He lies. Again. He lies through his teeth when Sam asks about what happened while he was stuck in the veil, because he just can’t bring himself to tell him that he almost stayed. That the reason he didn’t wake up when Sam begged him to was because he really wantedto be dead.

He doesn’t want to tell him, but Sam makes him.

“We can talk about it later.”

“We  _won’t_  talk about it later, you know that.”

He gives Sam just enough information to get him off his back, but he still holds his cards close to his chest. His eyes keep drifting over to the grieving mother standing close by, head in her hands, waiting for the body of her son.

_I’ve been there,_  he wants to tell her.  _It never stops hurting._

“You ok?” Sam asks again.

It’s because he’s watching Sean’s mom cry that he breaks his resolve and confesses, “No, Sam, I’m not ok. I’m pretty far from ok.”

He is not fine and he is ashamed of himself for that. His brother’s face crumbles despite all his best efforts, all his attempts at normalcy. Bacon, for once, has failed him.

The harsh reality of it is: nothing Sam can do will fill this hole in him. Sam will always be disappointed in himself because he will fail to fix Dean  _every time_.

There are some things you just can’t lie about, even to yourself.

So instead of trying that again, Dean picks up his conviction to silently bear his own burdens immediately after they get back into the car. He will not sentence Sam to perpetual guilt. It’s just as he’s having that talk with himself, a day too late, that his cell phone rings.

“Yeah?” he mutters, barely a word at all. Sam sleeps on in the passenger seat next to him.

“Dean?”

Shock, numbness. Nothing makes sense. He couldn’t make his words work even if he wanted to.

“Please don’t hang up,” the voice, that impossible voice, begs on the other end of the line when Dean doesn’t respond. “I, uh. I need a ride.”

Dean sits numbly listening to the awkward, hesitant words over the phone and hangs up and carefully puts both hands back on the steering wheel so he has something to hold onto. He centers himself in the short stretch of the highway laid out in front of him, lit up only by the Impala’s headlights and a few choice street lamps, dark and unknowable beyond that. Just one thing at a time.

“Dean?” Sam asks, tense and alert even with remnants of sleep in his eyes. “Who was on the phone?”

He didn’t say a word during the call, but from the minute Dean hangs up he isn’t exactly  _quiet_. He can hear himself, on the inside, the way that his mind spirals into half-formed thoughts and desperate prayers and wordless, nameless yearning. Hope. His heart careens against his ribcage and his blood thunders in his ears, but he can’t bring himself to say a thing.

If Cas is really out there, he’ll hear him loud and clear.

“Dean,” Sam repeats.

“Shut up,” Dean tells him. “Just for a second,” he begs. “Let me figure this out.” If he can keep this for himself, dashed hope hurts no one but him. And he’s already way past saving, anyway.

Sam does shut up, as requested, but he watches. He stares at Dean when they take the first available exit off of the highway, when he throws open the glove compartment and digs around for an atlas, when they pull into an empty alley. He only stops staring when Dean takes the keys out of the ignition.

Then, he follows Dean’s gaze out the windshield.

“No way,” Sam breathes, and Dean doesn’t waste any time. He wordlessly throws open the door and clambers out of the car, his little brother hot on his heels.

He takes two steps forward into the light of the street lamps and holds his breath, holds his tongue, waiting for something to happen. For a miracle that he asked God himself to give him.

Castiel turns, lit up by the reflection glinting off the payphone, and breaks the silence.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says behind them, breathless and euphoric. “Cas?”

Castiel steps away from the payphone. “Yes,” he confirms. His mouth twitches. “Cas is… back in town.”

Sam does laugh then, strangled and wet. “I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I,” Dean croaks.

Castiel smiles, but his eyes are sad. “You rarely do,” he says, fond.

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh then, a few tears of his own gathering behind his eyes. “You got me there.”

They come together, slamming into one another with open arms and wide smiles, and Dean desperately doesn’t want to let go.

“Welcome back,” he whispers, just loud enough for Castiel to hear. And so it is true.

In the distance, the sun starts to rise.

 

Dean drives them all towards the bunker through the morning, as the first rays of sunshine peek up over the horizon and begin to dye the dark sky back to pale. Sam, as usual, is the chatterbox on the ride home. He fills Castiel in on what he’s missed re: Mom, Jack, and Kelly, pumps him for information about his latest resurrection, then in more detail about The Empty, and Cas responds without fail, without hesitation, even when he can feel Sam getting more and more suspicious of his circumstances.

Maybe he  _should_ be exercising a little more caution, but Dean, meanwhile, is just content to glance back every now and again in the rearview. He catches Castiel’s eyes a few times and finds himself grinning – it is always reciprocated.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t say much of anything, actually. He just enjoys the feeling of warmth seeping back into his bones.

When they pull up to the bunker and finally get out of the car several long hours later, Castiel hovers at Dean’s shoulder. He curls his new coat around himself better and softens when Dean looks back at him, just checking to make sure he’s still there.

“You’re staying, right?” Dean asks.

“I’m staying,” Castiel replies, firm and certain.

Dean grins and hides it by ducking his head. “Awesome.” He reaches out and pats Castiel on the shoulder as he makes his way to the trunk to grab his duffle, fingers lingering.

“I’d like to speak with Jack,” Castiel adds. “If that’s alright.”

“Go for it, man,” Sam says. “Here, come on, I’ll introduce you. Dean, you ok here with the – ”

“I’ll grab the gear, you two go on,” Dean says. He even means it. That little kernel of hate that he keeps close to his heart when it comes to Jack – even that can’t get in the way of his good mood right now.

Castiel hesitates, reluctant to leave Dean’s side, but ultimately acquiesces. He heads inside with Sam, promising to see Dean soon.

“Take your time,” Dean tells him.

He hangs out in the war room by himself for a while. He toys with the idea of opening a beer, but he doesn’t really want that right now. He’s too wound up. He decides to make himself a sandwich instead, and he only hesitates for a second before dipping his butter knife back into the peanut butter and making Castiel a sandwich, too. He cuts it into halves like the whipped wimp that he is and leaves it on a plate on the table before carrying his own out into the war room.

“Hey,” Sam greets, lumbering in a little while later. He’s smiling. “You should see the two of them. It’s kind of freaky.”

Dean rolls his eyes and snorts. “I bet.”

Sam leans against the map table and shuffles in that way of his, and Dean just  _knows_ that another talk is coming.

He sets aside his sandwich plate and sighs, “Yes?”

Sam looks properly chagrined. “I just. I mean. Look, man. I’m as glad as anyone that Cas is back,” Sam starts. “But don’t you think it’s… I don’t know. Weird? Impossible, maybe?”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t care. I don’t, Sam. It absolutely does not matter.”

Sam frowns. “How can you say that? We don’t even know that this is – ”

“Gonna stop you right there,” Dean says, holding up a hand. “It’s him.”

Sam sighs, but trusts him on that point at least. “Alright, well. What about this cosmic entity Cas talked about? Should we be at least be concerned about that?”

“No.”

Sam shakes his head, lips twitching despite himself. “Of course not.”

Dean shrugs and crosses his arms. “We got our win, man. That’s enough for me.”

Sam narrows his eyes. Dean can feel the way he looks him over, head to toe. No sunglasses to hide bloodshot eyes, no suits of armor. He tilts his chin up and dares him to say something.

“Is it?”

Dean licks his lips and concedes, “Well, Mom, I mean. I’m still messed up about that. I asked – ”

He’s ashamed of this, too. Of silence, this time, rather than speech. That he hadn’t thought to ask Death herself about his mother’s soul and get the confirmation that he and Sam both need to get closure.

Sam’s eyes widen. “What? You asked Billie?”

Dean sighs. “Tried. Didn’t get an answer.”

Sam’s shoulders fall. Dean nudges him.

“Hey, come on. We can’t be – you can’t be sad right now,” Dean says. “There’s just no way you aren’t anything but totally over the moon.”

Sam grins. “It is pretty great. Having him back, I mean.”

“Tell me about it.”

Sam laughs. “I think maybe  _you_  should tell  _him_ about it.” He seems to realize that he’s probably pushing it, because he immediately raises his hands in surrender and adds, “Just saying.”

Dean’s smile dims, but he nods. “Hm. Maybe.”

Sam knocks him in the shoulder and steps away, calling out, “Well, I’ll, uh, leave you to it” as he goes.

“Hey, Sam?”

Sam turns.

“Thanks. For everything.”

Sam’s expression clears, and Dean is glad that he could relieve at least some of Sam’s guilt. “Always, Dean.”

 

When Dean returns to the kitchen, Castiel is already there. He sits at the table easy as anything, happily working on the second half of the sandwich that Dean left for him, like something out of Dean’s best dreams on a good day. He smiles when Dean walks into the room.

“Hey,” Dean says, unable to keep himself from returning the gesture.

“Hello,” Castiel says, swallowing. He sets his sandwich down and brushes the crumbs from his hands. “Jack is – he’s fascinating.”

“That’s one word for him, I guess,” Dean says, setting his plate in the sink. “How are  _you_ , though? Feeling ok? Nothing, uh. Weird?”

Castiel nods, splaying his hands. “I feel good,” he admits. “I’m home with my family, my grace is intact…”

Dean moves over towards the table without realizing it. He picks up the edge of Castiel’s plate, with only a crust left on it. “You done with this?” he asks softly.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

Dean shakes his head and takes that to the sink too. He turns on the water and runs both plates under the stream, breathing deep.

He doesn’t realize that Castiel is standing behind him until he turns to reach for the dishtowel and nearly smacks himself in the face.

Castiel holds the towel out between them, like he read Dean’s mind. “Here.”

Dean takes it, and their fingers brush. “Thanks.”

Castiel doesn’t let go immediately. He holds onto one end of the towel while Dean holds onto the other. They are tethered here, together, and neither one of them makes a move to separate.

“Dean,” says Castiel. “I – ”

“I love you,” Dean blurts, just like that. He takes a breath. “I never said it before and I should have. I love you.”

_Giving feeling form makes it real._

Castiel blinks, mouth open. “You – oh.”

Dean swallows and his smile wavers nervously. “Sorry. Uh. That was kind of… out there. I should just…”

Castiel yanks hard on the dishtowel. Dean stumbles forward until he finds himself pressed up against Castiel, leaning on him for support. Castiel raises his head up and presses their foreheads together, his free hand winding around the back of Dean’s neck, up into his hair, to hold him.

“I love you,” Castiel echoes. “Obviously.”

Dean laughs a little. “Obviously.”

They stand there for a moment, pressed tight, and Dean sighs. “I think we’re finally on the same page for once.”

Castiel meets Dean’s laugh with one of his own. “Yes, I believe we are.”

It’s never too late to speak up. It’s never too late for a new beginning.


	6. 13.06 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some domestic grumpy husbands for y’all <3 I love me some fan fiction gaps.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/167581032148/1306-coda)

By the time that Jack and Sam finally file out of the room, Dean has barely even unglued his eyes. The steam curling up from his coffee mug helps – the fragrant warmth loosens the tightness in his face, smoothes out some of the wrinkles like an iron on a pressed shirt, well-loved.

Castiel moves to get up from his seat, but Dean stops him with a gesture.  _Not yet_.

Castiel sits back down. He folds his coat up around his legs so he’s more comfortable in his chair.

And he stares. He watches Dean drink his coffee and pet down his hair and yawn and itch at his face, at the stubble growing in from the night.

He smiles a little to himself, but manages to hide it over the lip of his mug. He’s missed that look. This coffee tastes better than anything Dean’s had in days, just because Cas made it for him.

Castiel patiently does not say a word until the mug is empty. Dean draws it out for as long as he can, relishing the peace. The quiet. The contentment of being alone together, which is still so new after what feels like so long.

“Alright,” Dean relents, when he can’t delay any longer. They do still have a case to solve. He sets his empty mug down on the coffee table. He rubs his hands along his thighs and pushes himself to his feet, grunting a little as his joints wheeze with the effort. He stretches his arms above his head and his shirt rides up a little bit - he can feel it catching on the curve of his stomach. Castiel’s eyes track the movement, but he says nothing.

“I reek,” Dean proclaims, itching at the exposed skin. “You want to grab a shower?”

Castiel follows Dean’s example and stands, but it’s only to move forward and collect Dean’s dirty mug from the table. “No, thank you, I – ”

Dean catches his eye. Makes a face.

Castiel’s fingers dance across the mug where his two hands wrap around it.

“Oh,” he realizes, eyes a little wide. “I mean… yes.”

Dean laughs under his breath. “Meet you in there.”

“Mhm.”

Dean shakes his head and pushes on the fake saloon doors with gusto.

 

Castiel slides in behind him in the shower while he’s got shampoo in his eyes, head turned against the spray. Dean suspects that he timed it this way on purpose, playful and bashful all at once.

He hums contentedly as one of Cas’s huge hands slides up his hip, guiding him back where he wants him. “Howdy,” he greets, voice still sleep-rough and hoarse.

Lips press gingerly against the back of his neck. “Howdy,” Cas replies.

Dean smiles and opens his mouth to swirl around some water. He spits into the drain and turns, wiping the soap from his eyes. “Cool room, huh?”

Castiel looks like he’s barely resisting rolling his eyes. “Yes, very cool. I know how you feel about… all this.”

Dean grins, toothy. “Damn right.” He slings his forearms over Castiel’s shoulders, caging him in when he crosses his wrists behind his head. “Gonna get you in a hat. We’ll match. It’s gonna be great.”

Castiel does roll his eyes then, blinking hard when he manages to get water in them. His hair is starting to plaster to his head in that dumb, drowned rat way that Dean loves. “Is that really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Dean tells him. He leans back against the shower wall, dragging Castiel with him, and is exceedingly pleased with himself when he manages not to slip. 

“We just gonna stand here yapping all morning, or what?” he asks, smirking.

Castiel leans in then and catches Dean’s mouth. They don’t do much talking after that.

 

Steam clouds the bathroom long after Dean has shut off the hot water. He scrubs a towel through his hair, walking bare around the suite bathroom, and tosses another one at Castiel. They brush their teeth and shave side by side, catching each other’s eyes in the wiped-clean mirror and fighting smiles the whole time. Their arms press together at the sink and Dean’s face feels awfully warm – which, of course, he will blame on the steam.

Castiel puts on his suit again lightning-fast, with only a thought, having left it folded and ready on the couch in the other room. Dean, however, is confined to doing things the human way. Humming to himself and maybe taking more time than he needs to, he pulls on his underwear, his socks, his undershirt, his collared shirt, his pants, his jacket, his frankly  _awesome_  snakeskinboots, and –

“Hold on,” Castiel intones. He seemed to content to sit and watch Dean go about this part of his morning ritual alone, but he breaks his silence now.

Dean frowns. “What?”

Castiel strides up to him, way into his personal space, and reaches a hand up to Dean’s collar. Dean tilts his chin up on instinct to allow Cas access.

Castiel tightens the bolo around Dean’s neck, straightening and adjusting it a little more than is required. “There.”

Dean lowers his head and finds their faces very close together. Castiel just smiles at him, a soft thing that Dean is powerless to repay with one of his own, before he steps back.

(They’re so  _giddy_  to be back. It would almost be disgusting if Dean actually gave a shit about being anything other than completely over the moon right now.)

“You seem to be missing the most important part of the costume,” Castiel observes, regaining his composure.

Dean scoffs. “Oh, don’t you worry, buddy. Saved the best for last.”

He snatches his Stetson off the top shelf in the small closet, above the hanger and garment bag for his suit, and sticks it happily on top of his head. His hair isn’t totally dry yet and it probably won’t sit right for the next day or so, like he cares. He can’t resist being flashy about turning and posing for Cas with his hands splayed. 

“See? Really completes the look.”

Castiel shakes his head, but ultimately acquiesces with a slight smile, amusement shining in his eyes. “It does,” he admits.

Dean beams. “They’ve got some cheap ones for sale down in the lobby. My treat.”

Castiel groans. “Dean, please, don’t – ”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean says, holding up a hand. “You’re wearing a hat, capiche?”

Castiel raises his hands and then dejectedly slaps them against his sides. Resistance is futile. “Yeah, I capiche,” he grumbles.

Dean darts forward and says, “Good,” before pecking him quickly on the lips.

* * *

Their peace doesn’t last, of course. Jack is so eager to please and so quick to the draw that he ends up making one hell of a mistake - nothing catastrophic in the grand scheme of things, not like what the Winchesters have gotten used to at this point, but seeing the empty and hopeless look in Jack’s eyes is a sobering moment for all of them.

Mood dampened, the reality of their work setting in for the first time on a novelty case like this one, Dean suggests that Sam and Cas take Jack back to the bunker. Castiel instead volunteers to take over the case, and the resulting hunt for the ghoul.

“No,” Dean says, softly but clearly, so that his intention is known. 

He just got Castiel back. He’s not willing to lose him again so soon, even on a training wheels hunt like this one. The thought alone that something might go wrong and Dean wouldn’t be there to back him up puts a sour taste in his mouth. 

Castiel’s eyes stay fast where they meet Dean’s, some of that old stubbornness rising to the surface as they silently hash the responsibility out, but Dean can practically see the moment he folds. Just like always, as with everything, Castiel goes where Dean leads him. He breaks their eye contact and accepts Dean’s point that Jack needs someone to comfort him right now, someone powerful enough to shield Sam in the event that Jack loses control in a guilty rage. 

He doesn’t trust anybody but Baby with his family. Dean helps them load everything into the Impala before taking off for the undertaker’s place, bags and suits and boots and half-angel kids piled too close together. Castiel handles the latter with a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, guiding him to the backseat.

“Watch your head,” Dean hears him say, as Jack folds himself into the car, numb and slow.

Dean purses his lips and kicks up a rock on the asphalt. He looks up at Sam, a few steps away by the driver’s side. 

He tosses him the keys, and Sam catches them effortlessly. “Got your phone?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, weary. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Is it  _charged_?” Dean asks.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he repeats. “I’ll text you when we get to the bunker.”

Dean nods. “Atta boy.” He reaches up and grabs Sam in a one-armed hug, which is quickly returned. “You watch out for them.”

Sam sniffs. “I will.”

Dean pats him on the arm, and that’s all the dismissal he needs.

 

Castiel wanders up to him next, hanging back until Sam has gone. Jack doesn’t pay them any attention, just staring out the window into nothingness, and Sam knows enough by now to avert his eyes and pretend he doesn’t hear them.

“Hey,” Dean says, hanging his head.

“Hello,” comes the easy reply. Castiel doesn’t dare reach out and touch him, but he does say, “Please be careful. Don’t do anything rash.  _Please_.”

_I just got you back,_ Castiel means to say. Dean can hear it reverberating around in his own head, so he knows that’s what Cas is thinking. They are so alike in this respect, and for once they’re on the same page.

Dean nods. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You know me, always Mr. Responsible.”

Castiel hums, and nods. “Call if you need backup. I can get to you as quickly as you need.”

Dean nods. “Good to know. Uh, thanks.”

Out of things to say, Castiel chews his bottom lip. It’s a nervous gesture that Dean doesn’t quite recognize. “Well. I’ll…”

Dean tips his head up. “I’ll see you at home,” he says.

Castiel meets his eyes, blinking wide, some unknown emotion swirling behind his own. “Yes,” he says quietly. “See you at home.”

Without making too big a deal out of it, Dean snags Castiel’s sleeve and pulls him in, kissing his cheek before wrapping him in a quick hug. Castiel tilts his head against Dean’s and returns it without hesitation.

“Good luck out there,” Dean tells him.

“Back at you, cowboy,” Castiel drawls, in that stupid fucking accent.

Dean laughs as he pulls back, rubbing his thumb along the seam of Castiel’s sleeve. “You still got that hat?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t lose it,” Dean requests. “We’ll revisit that later.”

Castiel smirks infinitesimally. His attempt at levity is greatly appreciated. “If you say so.”

They part ways after that, Dean beckoning him off with a hand raised in the air. Sam returns the wave on all their behalf before pulling out of the parking lot, headlights cutting through the dark. The last thing that Dean sees is Jack’s sad form silhouetted in the back windshield, small and broken.

Dean sighs and shakes his head before stomping back into the motel room. He eyes a dark blue Dodge at the other end of the parking lot, ripe for a hot-wiring.

Back to work. Time to bring home another win.


	7. 13.07 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts immediately after 13.06  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/167831833053/1307-coda)

“Jack?” Castiel yells. “JACK!”

“Cas,” Dean warns, pulling himself to his feet.

Sam snaps his eyes over to Castiel’s, already on his feet. “I’ll check his room. Do a whole sweep, top to bottom. Dean, take the kitchen. Cas? You take the garage.”

Dean knuckles at the small of his back where he can already feel a bruise forming. “Sam. He’s gone, forget it. You know that.”

Sam’s eyes burn with infamous determination. “Check everywhere,” he enunciates, before dashing off.

Castiel strides past him, too, even when Dean reaches out to catch his sleeve. The material of the coat slides right out of his fingers, and he gets the distinct pleasure of watching Castiel walk away from him, tension carried high in his shoulders.

Dean runs a hand over his face. “Shit.”

He knows full well that Jack isn’t going to be in the kitchen. He knows that the kid isn’t just crouched somewhere safe in the dark, waiting for this wave of self-loathing to pass. He killed someone, and that’s permanent; so he made a permanent decision in response. This isn’t something that you bounce back from easily. Dean  _knows_ that. The first time he killed anyone he was still a kid himself.

He can respect Jack a little bit for leaving. It’s the first time that he’s ever really stood up for himself, in his own way. This Is Important to Me, And I’m Going to Do What I Have to in Order to Protect It. Maybe he’s more Winchester than they all thought.

He walks into the kitchen with his head hung low. This is safe place. He dutifully checks all the corners, all the hiding places. No Jack. So Dean walks over to the cabinets, fishes out a few antique mugs, and reaches for the coffee pot.

He can hear snatches of Sam’s frenzied shouting echoing in the halls. He grinds his teeth and taps the side of the machine as the first of the water starts to drip down into the pot.

A few minutes later, Castiel comes careening into the kitchen, bracing himself against the doorway. 

“Anything?” he pants.

“No,” Dean says.

Castiel slumps. “Damn it. I should have said something. I should have – ”

“Stop,” Dean commands. “Sit down.”

Castiel does. He shuffles in a daze over to the kitchen table and splays out along the bench seat, head tipped back with his eyes raised skyward.

“I’ve failed him already,” he laments. “I lasted a day and a half as his… as his father.”

Dean picks up one of the delicate mugs and fills it up with coffee. There’s enough in the pot for one cup, and he makes use of it. He carries the cup with two hands over the table and sets it down in front of Castiel before sliding into the seat across from him.

Castiel wraps a hand around the cup automatically, but he doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. 

“I’m terrible at this.”

Dean shakes his head. “There was nothing you could have done,” he consoles. “Jack would have left here no matter what.”

Castiel only shakes his head in response.

“He loves you, Cas. That’s why he had to do what he did. You get that, don’t you?”

He watches his words play out across Castiel’s face, old memories rising to the surface. How many times has Castiel turned his back on this family for its own good? How many times did it break him to do it?

“It hurts a lot more on this side of things,” Castiel sighs. He lifts the mug to his lips and takes an indulgent sip, if only to placate Dean, who continues to watch him like a hawk.

He snorts now. “Yeah, you’re telling me.”

Castiel sighs again. He lowers his eyes from the ceiling and instead catches Dean’s. His free hand, the one not wrapped around his coffee mug, reaches out to grasp one of Dean’s on top of the table. “I’m sorry.”

Dean squeezes his hand and drops his eyes. “In the past,” he promises.

Castiel withdraws and draws the mug up under his nose with both hands.

Sam bursts into the kitchen already sweating. “Hey,” he gasps. “Nothing?”

“Zip,” Dean says.

Sam’s face screws up in pain. “Shit. Ok. Ok,” he says, mostly to himself. He curls his hair behind his ears, a nervous gesture. “I’m going to get my computer. You just – you – ”

“I’ll stay here,” Dean volunteers. “Make more coffee.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, breathless. “Yeah, you… you make coffee.” 

His eyes dart worryingly to Castiel’s back, but he says nothing. His lips thin and his brows crease and then he walks away, hanging his head.

Dean blows out a sigh. He gets up and mans the coffee pot.

Castiel doesn’t say a word for the whole process. Dean sits and drinks a cup of coffee with him in silence, his foot wrapped around Castiel’s ankle under the table. He gets up and refills Castiel’s mug when it’s empty. Castiel drinks the next one, too.

When he feels that he’s given Sam enough time to make some headway and that Castiel isn’t on the verge of a depressive breakdown, Dean finally rises from the table. He quickly rinses his mug out in the sink, and splits the last of the coffee in the pot between his and the third, empty mug on the counter before cautiously heading for the door.

The angel stares into his coffee mug and he doesn’t look up.

Dean swallows. “You just sit here for a second, ok?” he says, fidgeting. “Let Sam and me take point on this one.”

Castiel shakes his head, but he says, “I’ll just be a… minute.”

“Ok.”

His hands aren’t free, but the impulse to soothe and  _care for_  and  _look after_  is too strong to ignore. Before he can think too hard about it, Dean leans down and presses a soft kiss into the crown of Castiel’s head. He lingers there for a minute, selfishly breathing in the smell of his hair, before he pulls away.

“Ok,” Dean repeats, and heads for the library. He is careful not to spill any coffee on the floor.

Left alone, Castiel wipes his face with his hands, as he once did in Purgatory.

It didn’t cleanse his sins from him then, and it certainly doesn’t do it now.

 

“Anything?” Dean sets Sam’s coffee mug down by his wrist.

“No,” Sam says. “Thanks. I put out an APB to every single hunter we know.” Dean takes a seat across from him at his own computer.

“But,” Sam continues, shutting his laptop. “Jack’s off the grid.”

Dean watches his brother for a minute. Dislikes the unhappy way Sam’s mouth twitches.

He knows that look. He knows guilt as plain as if he were looking in a mirror.

“Kid was pretty spun out,” he says, softly. 

It’s time for him to pay Sam back for before and keep the faith. “We’ll find him. I mean, there’s gotta be a sign at some point, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Kid can cause a tsunami with a hiccup.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s covering his tracks,” Sam mumbles.

“Or,” Castiel says, announcing his arrival. “This apparent dearth of evidence  _is_ the evidence.”

He looks a little rumpled, Dean observes. His eyes are red rimmed and the bags beneath them look even more pronounced. Castiel’s hair is fluffed like he’s been raking his hands through it, in a way that Dean hasn’t seen since literal electricity used to course through Castiel like a conduit.

“You mean evidence of…?” Sam asks.

“Of some horrific misadventure that’s befallen him,” Castiel elaborates. “Like being dragged down to Hell by Asmodeus or, possibly worse, being high-jacked to Heaven by angels.”

It was a bad idea leaving Cas on his own in the kitchen, Dean realizes. His mind always goes to worst-case scenarios.

“Yeah, but isn’t he too fast and furious for angels?” Dean asks.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Castiel replies, eyes darting away. Dean narrows his eyes in response. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

“Find out from who?” Sam asks, before Dean has a chance to ask the very same thing. “From the angels?”

“Yes.”

Not for nothing; a hot spike of dread shoots through Dean faster than he can make sense of the words that are being said. Meeting with the angels never works out for them where Castiel is involved. Never. 

But here’s the thing: Dean can either have his back on this, or he can fight him. He is not in any mood to wreck his and Castiel’s relationship any more than he already has in the past, so he comes to a split-second decision that he knows he will probably regret. He stands and says, “Alright. Well let’s go.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, and he can hear the weariness behind it. “You can’t accompany me. My contact is already anxious about meeting and won’t speak in the presence of a stranger.”

_Bullshit_ , Dean thinks.  _Heaven knows all about me. That reaper Jessica went tattletale to her new boss the second she saw me._  

Besides. Castiel had said the same thing about Ishim and Mirabel, and look how thatturned out.

“So introduce me,” Dean says, instead of all that. “And then I’m not a stranger. I’ll bring a six-pack.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats. “I swore I would protect this boy.”

The same guilt that crowds Sam’s face is reflected on Castiel’s. So many burdens shared between the three of them. They’re all going to go grey any day now.

“Let me do this.”

And more than Dean doesn’t want to let Castiel go, he doesn’t want to fight him. He doesn’t want to chain himself down and cause him more trouble than he’s worth. So he swallows down the protests and the raised voices crowding behind his teeth, and instead he says, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

_Don’t lose yourself in this. Don’t die on me again. Don’t leave._

His fists clench at his sides, and Castiel exits without acknowledging the remark - Dean knows that it’s only because he’s so lost in his own head. He watches him go and a piece of him goes too. Left behind again, despite the talk in the kitchen about how that really feels. 

But he… maybe gets it, too.

He shakes his head and buckles down and says in Sam’s direction with only a tinge of bitterness, “Alright. Guess we’re stuck in idle.”

“So,” Sam says, a sardonic laugh gracing his face as he throws up his hands. “What do we do? Just sit around here and wait?”

That is the exact opposite of what Dean wants to do, but he was prepared for this exact scenario nonetheless.

“Or we could work a case,” he proposes.

So they do.

 

They’re crouching behind a bush in the woods when Sam brings it up again.

“Heard from Cas?” he whispers, waiting for some sign of movement outside the cabin.

“Dude. No,” Dean says back. “Come on. Eyes on the road.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Just wondering.”

Dean tightens his grip on his tranq gun and purses his lips. “He’ll get in touch when he needs to, ok? You know Cas. Man of few words.”

“Uh, not true,” Sam whispers back, “But keep telling yourself that.”

“I’m serious. We don’t say a lot of shit out loud,” Dean tells him. “We’re cool, alright. Same page. He’ll call.”

“If you say so.”

“ _He’ll call._ ”

“Hey,” Sam says, smacking him. There’s a suspicious dark shape near the back of house, at the base of the chimney. “That might be our guy. I’m gonna sweep around. You good here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles, adjusting his stance. “Let’s bag us a dickbag.”

And bag him they do. Lucky for Dean, taking some of his frustration out on Ketch’s face proves to be incredibly cathartic.

He switches from coffee to whiskey immediately after their encounter. He checks his phone and he’s got no missed calls, no text messages.

He wishes he could just talk to Castiel. He’s always been pretty good at talking him down from the ledge.

 

Elsewhere, Castiel finds himself thinking similar thoughts. Dean’s longing pulls on Castiel’s center like a physical thing, and as is the norm Castiel’s guilt and sense of obligation pulls him in the opposite direction.

The playground is silent, swathed in a menacing aura. Everything about it screams Keep Out, like haunted ground. And it  _is_  haunted. There was a time when gates to Heaven were heralded, sought after. Now they are guarded, closed, and abandoned.

Castiel stands stiff at the edge of the sandbox, and only feels himself relax when a familiar face comes into view.

“Duma,” Castiel greets, one of his garrison comrades from the old days. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. This is a matter of great urgency. It’s imperative that I locate Jack.”

“You mean the Nephilim,” Duma clarifies.

She is an angel and she is still sheltered from this world and so she does not understand. He forgives her for this. “Yes,” Castiel says, for simplicity’s sake. “Do the angels have him?”

Duma’s face undergoes a change, and her answering “no” is sincere. Castiel can sense no deceit in her answer, but he is desperate.

“Ok. You’re certain he’s not sitting in maybe Metatron’s old cell or – ”

“If we had him, he wouldn’t be imprisoned. He would be put to work.”

Castiel’s frown only deepens. He rears up a little out of defensive instinct. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t mean to be so coarse with her, with his sister, his friend, but the stiffness of her face now unnerves him. Her grace flickers with a note of fear.

“Castiel. The angels – ” she has to cut herself off for a minute. “Our numbers were greatly diminished after the fall. No one’s made new angels since the dawn of creation.”

And she is good enough not to say it to his face, not to say that she blames him, but she looks directly into his eyes when she adds, “We are going  _extinct_.”

He cannot deny this. He is at fault.

“We would need a powerful force to make more of us,” Duma says.

“You mean Jack,” Castiel says.

Duma doesn’t contradict him.

He feels his face working before he reigns in his anger, his disappointment, his – “Even if he had that power, what makes you think he’d cooperate?”

Duma smiles, and it’s a smile that Castiel knows well. A sad smile, born of duty and lost in hopelessness. “He may not have a choice.”

And, as it turns out, neither does Castiel.

More of them come, two more of his sisters forcing him back among their ranks. To serve his original purpose as instrument of coercion. He has been deceived once again and he is getting so tired of this happening to him. This is yet another reminder of where his loyalties should lie; with the family that makes him coffee he does not need to drink and treats him with a touch he does not deserve.

“No,” Castiel says, and it tastes bitter in his mouth. “I will not help you.”

“Castiel, please,” Duma pleads. She reaches out. “Come with us.”

Her small hand clasps around his wrist, over the fabric of his coat, and beckons him forward. He almost goes with her, wavers for just a second even though he knows that he can’t.

He hates himself for what he is about to do. But that is no change of pace for Castiel, and it must be done.

He shoves his sister back from him, forcefully enough that she nearly stumbles back into the sandbox. The look of betrayal in her eyes, like the many dozens of others before her, will haunt Castiel forever. She draws her sword, and so does he.

As three face off against one, he wishes now more than ever that he had brought Dean along with him.

He doesn’t want to kill any of them, and he suffers for that choice. The cold bite of Duma’s blade cuts into his skin. He can feel her panting against his back, trembling in her anger, and he wouldn’t blame her for slitting his throat right then and there.

“Drop the blade, Duma.”

There is no mistaking that voice. An icy chill spreads through Castiel’s chest when he hears it, the same rumbling growl that has reverberated in his own head for far too long. His breath hitches and heaves out of him, drawn out by fear and loathing. Disbelieving, he turns with Duma to look even though he doesn’t need to.

He knows. He can feel it in the very bones of his body, still carrying traces of the frostbite he left behind.

Lucifer stands there in the flesh. And, bizarrely, he collects Castiel from battle.

Rage bellows up from the depths of him. Lucifer, most hated abomination, most vile, most deceitful and evil –

“What are you doing back in this world?” Castiel snaps, because if there were one thing his death should have stood for it was the removal of Lucifer from the playing field.

“What are you doing  _alive_?” Lucifer asks around a hacking cough. He dares lounge on the park bench as if at ease.

“It’s complicated!”

“Same here,” Lucifer says. He gestures to the whole of himself and curls over his knees. “Obviously, getting here took its toll.”

“You’re weak,” Castiel realizes. His sword is still in his hand. He stalks forward, murderous rage boiling behind his eyes. He thinks they might be glowing a little.

He hates him. He hates him so goddamn much. For the crimes he’s committed against Sam Winchester, Kelly Kline, himself, and all of humanity, he hates him.

“Yeah, I’m really not myself – Whoa, cowboy, I’m not  _that_ weak,” he warns, standing.

And though Castiel doesn’t quite believe him, turning his back on this snake is what got him killed the last time.

(And a bit of that fear still lingers.)

So he doesn’t push his luck and instead exercises a little caution. But he keeps his sword drawn, just in case.

“And you and I need to talk,” Lucifer says.

“I have  _no_  interest in talking to you. And if this is about your  _son_  – ”

“Ok,” Lucifer sighs, closing his eyes. “I get it, I get it. Custody of my son is a nonstarter. But if you please can just shelve the Eternal Enemies thing for a second, we have a situation. And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘everything alive.’”

That catches Castiel’s attention. Here Lucifer is, weak, wavering on his feet, and pale, cutting right to the heart of the matter. And no matter how much Castiel despises him, no matter how much he doesn’t want to work with him, mutual destruction has always been fair cause to cooperate.

He thinks of Dean, and of Sam, down in the bunker and hidden from the world, who have lost everything and spent their whole lives searching for peace.

Castiel narrows his eyes. Wordlessly, he wills Lucifer to go on.

“We’re sorta… all gonna die.”

Castiel regards him with trepidation. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Lucifer coughs again. “Look, uh. I’d be  _happy_  to give you the juicy details, alright? I really would. But do you think we could siddown somewhere? Maybe get a drink? I did just jump through a wormhole, you know.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. His whole body rocks with it. “Fine,” he growls. “Let’s go.”

“Whoa, hey. Hey,” Lucifer hisses, jogging after him. “Come on.”

Castiel grinds his teeth and doesn’t check to see if Lucifer is following. He assumes that he must be, because his voice calls out a second later:

“You’re still a little sore about that whole possession thing, huh?”

“A bit,” Castiel snaps.

Lucifer manages a weak chuckle. “Aw, come on, Cas. Water under the bridge, right?”

“Wrong.”

Lucifer pants, joining him at his side. “Speaking of possession, how’s my favorite vessel doing? Sammy boy.”

Castiel shivers at the sick tone Lucifer uses and retaliates with a snarl. “He is none of your concern.”

“Sure, sure. What about Dean?”

Before Lucifer can blink, Castiel has him pressed up against an oak tree, forearm thrown across his neck. Lucifer scrambles for a minute in shock, hands closing around the weight pinning him down, but Castiel manages to lift him off the ground. Lucifer’s feet kick out uselessly underneath him.

“Don’t even say his name,” Castiel hisses, low and deadly.

Lucifer gives him a red-faced thumbs up, and Castiel drops him.

He coughs and rubs at his sore neck once he’s released. Castiel can tell that he’s irritated at having been caught off guard so suddenly by what he considers to be such a weakling, but shame keeps him from attacking. “Geez, buddy. Lighten up.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “I am not your  _buddy_.”

With that, he stalks away, and Lucifer follows dutifully behind. He doesn’t bring up either of the Winchesters again.

Nick’s Bar is not too far from the park, so Castiel walks him there. They slump into a booth together, Castiel twitching all the while, and Lucifer merely sags in comfort.

“Now this is more like it,” he says.

“Stop,” Castiel says, holding up a hand. He can do it, too, because Lucifer wheezes and sputters a little like a flickering candle whenever Castiel so much as postures in his direction. “Before you say  _anything_  else, tell me now: is Mary Winchester alive?”

Lucifer leans back and mightily rolls his eyes, ever the drama queen. “For  _now_ , maybe.”

Castiel lets go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

If there is any chance that he can get to his phone later, he has to make an effort to communicate this to Sam and Dean. They will ask questions, and he will divert them as best he can. He’ll think of something. He’s a very adept liar, and this is important.

“Alright. You can speak now.”

Lucifer leans forward again, propping himself up on his elbows. A game of pool starts up to their right, and Castiel’s eyes are drawn to it despite himself. The man at the table looks nothing like him, but still Castiel thinks of Dean.

“I ran into a friend of ours in Apocalypse world,” Lucifer teases. “Tall, dark, and ugly. Bigger than ever.”

“Who?” Castiel intones, bored.

“Michael –  _the_ Michael – has figured out how to break into other dimensions. He’s got, you’ll love this,  _Kevin Tran_ decoding tablets for him left and right, and he wants in on this world. He wants it for himself, man, and trust me when I say that you do NOT want that happening.”

Castiel tears his gaze away from the pool table. “Michael,” he repeats slowly, disbelieving. “And Kevin?”

“Yes,” Lucifer hisses. “Totally off the deep end. He ripped out my – ”

Lucifer hesitates, clenches his fists, and raises his eyes again. Castiel hates him so, so much and wants to be anywhere but here. He looks to the pool table again.

“Everything I am telling you is true. You were there, man, you saw what that place was like! The Michael I just described to you? Is responsible for that.”

Castiel nods. Looks towards the pool table. The door. The pool table again.

“Will you do me a favor and stop looking at the door every five seconds like you want to get out of here?”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m a little on edge,” Castiel sneers. “The last time we were together, you  _killed me_.”

“The last time we were together, you stabbed me!” Lucifer counters, as if it was totally uncalled for.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel scoffs.

“You want to dwell on the past?” Lucifer asks. “I don’t!”

He leans in closer, eyes drooping. “Look, I’m not myself anyway,” he reassures. “What am I going to do?”

Castiel is ashamed to admit it, but he does feel a little bit safer, staring down Lucifer and knowing that he can’t hurt him. He doesn’t  _need_ the backup, but Castiel is suddenly reminded of another diner, another judgmental angel from his past staring him down, and another bench seat that Dean had slid effortlessly into, pressed warm against Castiel’s side. He had looked threat and danger in its face and came to Castiel’s defense despite the foolishness in doing so.

But now Castiel is alone, and he wishes that he wasn’t.

He and Lucifer get into it and he can feel the few other patrons in the bar start to turn their heads towards them during their arguing. Lucifer would ask of Castiel exactly what Duma just asked – and what Castiel refused to do – and he gives the same answer now that he did twenty minutes ago.

But Lucifer only gets more frantic, and Castiel, amazingly recognizes something in his eyes.

He sees  _fear_ , and that is what convinces him to lower his guard.

“I have to talk to Sam and Dean,” Castiel says.

“Ugh,” Lucifer groans. “Why, why why? With all their second-guessing and their whining? This is an  _emergency_ , Castiel, and they’re gonna want to do is put me back in the Cage!”

“That’s all I want!” Castiel thunders back.

Lucifer is not deterred. He pokes and he pesters and eventually he gets it out of Castiel that Jack is missing. That Castiel has no idea where he is. He squares his jaw and reluctantly admits to it in silence, and Lucifer delights in his failure just as he always has.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Castiel announces, standing. His stomach squirms with the way that Lucifer is looking at him, so smug and knowing.

Lucifer makes a different face at the remark. “You’re  _what_?”

Castiel glares down at him. “I need to not look at you for a while,” he says.

Lucifer frowns again. “Ouch. Why didn’t you just say that?”

Castiel sighs. “Stay here.”

He stalks off to the men’s room and tries to hide the trembling in his hands.

As soon as he’s behind the safety of the flimsy bathroom door, Castiel lets out a breath in an exhausted sigh. His shoulders droop and his eyes slip shut of their own accord.

Yes, he is afraid, and he doubts. But he cannot simply walk away from this table. There is much to consider here. What would the Winchesters say?

He can’t very well ask them, because Lucifer is right: Dean and Sam will, rightly, lock Lucifer away. Castiel had freed him from the Cage back when they needed help against Amara, and he stands by that decision even though it had regrettable effects. Michael, despite being as powerful as Lucifer believes, is no Amara. If it did come to combat, maybe Lucifer  _could_ take Michael down.

But Dean had told him of a future not so long ago where Lucifer had succeeded in that, and the world ended up burned.

Maybe there is no way to win. Maybe this is a lose-lose scenario.

And he never wants Jack to take another life again, even if it’s an archangel’s. Not even if its someone that deserves it.

Castiel walks over to the sink and turns on the water. He splashes some into his hand and raises it to the back of his neck, imagining that it was a different kind of touch instead.

Dean has been so soft with him since he returned. He needs that now to give him confidence, to settle his nerves. The longing pulling on his heartstrings doesn’t help his own longing diminish.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a long while before grabbing some paper towels and drying himself off. He exits the bathroom and then just as he is about to turn the corner, back to the booth to work this out with Lucifer, his cellphone buzzes in his pocket.

Castiel jerks back behind the safety of the partition and picks up the call. Lo and behold, it’s Dean, like some big cosmic joke.

“Cas,” Dean says, and even without seeing his face Castiel knows that Dean is unhappy. His voice is tight and a little slow; he’s had a drink or two. Something has managed to distress him – perhaps it is Castiel’s own absence? – and in typical Dean fashion he bulldozes past it, straight to business. The niceties tend to stop between them under stress, and both of them appear to be under considerable amounts of it at the moment.

“Any news on Jack? We need to find him, fast.”

“Nothing yet,” Castiel says. He leans his head back against the wall to rest against it. “But interesting things are happening – ” he begins, intent on letting Dean know what has transpired today despite his doubt.

Lucifer appears right by his head before he can finish his sentence, and he finds himself momentarily paralyzed as those eyes boring into his glow a deep and menacing crimson.

“What?” Dean asks.

In his moment of surprise, Castiel blurts out something to hide the true nature of their conversation in front of Lucifer, which unfortunately happens to be the truth.

“Yes,” he says stiffly. “I would like to see you, too. The sooner, the better.”

Dean hesitates for a long moment, and Lucifer snatches the phone out of Castiel’s hands. On his next “Cas,” which Castiel catches in the second before Lucifer hangs up the call, he can hear how Dean’s voice has incrementally softened, even though suspicion oozes from the question. They are both missing one another, but Dean will not be blinded by that. He knows that something is wrong, and Castiel should expect him soon because of it.

He doesn’t warn Lucifer of this. Instead, he stomps after him in the direction of the bar in an attempt to liberate his phone. He does, uh, need that.

Lucifer turns out to be scrolling through his camera roll by the time he catches up. He recognizes the landscape shots he’s taken, a few of Dean and Sam that go by in rapid fire.

“I gotta say,” Lucifer whistles. “I was expecting a lot more dong on this thing.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He makes a move to grab the phone, but Lucifer holds it just out of reach before sticking it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

“No, no,” he says, staring straight ahead. “I’ll be holding onto this. Can’t have you blabbing to your boyfriend.”

Castiel sniffs and reluctantly takes a seat beside Lucifer on the stool.

Beside him, the archangel lifts his hands to his face. He laughs once, and then rage creeps out from between his fingers.

“It’s bad enough the Winchesters were babysitting my son,” Lucifer says. “But then they managed to  _lose him_? With Heaven, Hell, and everything in between hunting him down?”

Castiel feels hope alight in his chest as Dean’s longing begins to subside. As is usually the case when they are reunited, his grace flares a little at the knowledge that Dean is  _close,_ or at least closer than he was.

_He’s probably in the Impala right now_ , Castiel reasons.  _He knows that something isn’t right and he’s coming to see for himself._

_So keep Lucifer talking. Stall until they get here, and then Lucifer can explain everything to the Winchesters himself_. The decision will be out of his hands, then.

He loses himself a little in the resulting argument – Lucifer gets under his skin in a way that really no one else can – until the doors burst open with a flash of white lightning, followed by the crisp, white suit of the new demon king.

Castiel stands immediately, ready to fight. Beneath this thin veneer of clean silk and satin writhes the sulfuric yellow taint of what can only be a Prince of Hell. Both Ramiel and Dagon, who Castiel had stared down with what he thought might be his dying breath, had the same look about them –  though the brother that stands before him here is much smaller, slimier, repulsive. There is little regency to him but Castiel hates him already, as well as the three demon henchman that he has brought with him.

Silently and for the first time today, he wills Dean to stay away.  _Not safe not safe not safe._

Lucifer stays rooted to the bar. Castiel would fly away and leave him here in a second, but his wings are torn from being thrust through the hole he ripped in The Empty. He isn’t strong enough to carry himself with any great speed or distance; the demons would catch him immediately.

Better to face his problems head on instead.

He puts up a good fight. He does. After Asmodeus slams Castiel and Lucifer into the bar, Castiel twists to his feet with his sword swinging in his tight grip. He fatally wounds one of the demons that charge him, but two more collapse on him and hold him down. He kicks out and strikes one before managing to twist away, catching broken glass all in his coat, in his hair. 

Though he holds nothing back, fighting not just for himself but for the Winchesters, who might arrive at any moment to a fight they cannot hope to win unprepared, the demons overwhelm him. They singe his skin and steal his sword, they cover his mouth and gag him on smoke and wrap tightly around him, like snakes squeezing the life from their prey. Asmodeus, with his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, snaps his fingers, and then they are gone from the bar.

The tip of a blade slices into Castiel’s back as they materialize in the throne room of Hell, and Castiel wails as grace beads up to the surface of the wound. Lucifer glances over, unbothered.

“Go back and take care of the others,” Asmodeus drawls. “Just in case someone gets a bit  _nosey_.”

“No,” Castiel growls. The demon pinning him cuts him again, this time a deep and sharp gouge into the meat of his shoulder. Castiel cries out, slamming his eyes shut against the pain.

He falls to his knees, and the demons disappear from his back. More underlings come from seemingly nowhere to take their places. Castiel struggles against their hold, shouting things like, “Get off me,” and, “I’ll kill you,” but they are empty threats and he knows it. Asmodeus squeezes his hands together and Castiel doubles over, blood spilling from his lips as demon magic squeezes around his body’s squishy innards.

Castiel catches himself on the floor on his hands, on all fours like a dog, while Lucifer watches placidly. He knows that Lucifer will deny any association with him. He is on his own now.

“I’ll be taking this,” Asmodeus says, reaching inside Lucifer’s inner pocket. He extracts Castiel’s phone and waves it in front of him teasingly.

“Let’s give those boys of yours a call, hm?”

“Dean,” Castiel coughs.

“Oh,” Asmodeus replies. “Just Dean then. Right. I’ve heard about you two.”

Lucifer yawns, exaggerating the movement. “Hey, while I’d just  _love_ to listen to you play phone tag with the Winchesters for a few hours, I’d actually be much more at home if I could take a seat. Like, on my throne. So, you know, I’ll just be – ”

Asmodeus holds out a finger. “Uh uh,” he says darkly. Lucifer recoils.

“All those years,” Asmodeus says, advancing on him. “All those years you spent telling me I was crazy for wanting to harness the Shedim. You think I forgot,  _Master_?”

Asmodeus traces his fingers down the scarring on the left side of his face, eternally inflamed. 

“Well now it’s your turn. I’m calling the shots, Lou. It’s a new era.”

Lucifer fumes while on Asmodeus’s command two more demons descend on them – on the cowering Castiel, still trying to stagger to his feet despite his odds, and on Lucifer, too weak to fight anything stronger than a child off of him.

“You ungrateful  _swine_ ,” Lucifer screams at them. “I MADE you! I made all of you!”

Asmodeus pays him no mind. As Castiel is dragged away to only god knows where, he watches the prince tap away on his phone.

“Dean,” he hears his own voice say, just as the doors to the throne room close behind him.

“No!” he thunders. He is only hurt further when he tries to struggle.

He has to warn Dean. He has to tell him the truth, he hasn’t even got the chance to say goodbye or tell him about his mom or –

Castiel arrives at a place that he knows very, very well. He has walked this very path once before, righteous and holier than now.

“Welcome,” says the demon holding him, “To the rack.”

Castiel’s heart jumps into his throat.

 

Dean frowns down at his phone, hung up on again for the second time in a row today. “Ok,” he grumbles, turning it off. “Something’s  _definitely_ screwy around here.”

Sam sighs. “You’re telling me. Cas, demons, Ketch. What the hell, man? What’s next?”

Dean worries at his lower lip and slowly shakes his head, counting the street lamps as they zip by. “Don’t know. But whatever it is, we gotta keep on our toes.”

He looks down at his phone, resting in his lap, screen gone dark. “All of us, I guess.”

He has promised not to fight Castiel on his choices, and instead stand by him. If he says that he’s got an interesting lead, Dean will let him pursue it and do his best to follow up. He can only hope that occasionally he will remember to check in and confirm that he’s alive at lease once a day. That he will remember how it felt in the kitchen to be left behind and that he will show Dean some consideration. 

Even that doesn’t feel like enough.

Dean can’t shake the feeling that something is  _wrong,_ very wrong indeed.

 

Billie likes to say that sometimes the universe has a sense of humor. That sometimes it is poetic.

As Dean Winchester hangs up on what he thinks is Castiel, he begins on a journey that will take him right back to where this love story all began.

The righteous man still has blood to spill in Hell. But this time, it will be the blood of the deserving. Dean Winchester will finally be able to pay back his debt in full, and rescue an angel from the pit of the earth.

And, honestly, it doesn’t get much more poetic than that.


	8. 13.07 coda: Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boy was missing tonight! Can't have that!!  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/167831901378/1307-coda-jack)

High above the world, Jack careens through the air on shaky limbs, eyes open and stinging as space bends around him, funnels in and squeezes him out like a tube of toothpaste from the inside, twisting and shifting with color and sound that he doesn’t have the time – time? – to dissect. Panic rises up into his throat; how will he know when to stop? And where? He has already gone too far, he thinks.

Jack slams his eyes shut and lands like a blind dart at a target, and goes crooked. He stumbles after his body as it settles, stationary, into the present, eyes blinking and chest heaving under the strain.

He slowly shakes his head and listens for the sound of his heart.

Still there, still beating.

_There_ , he thinks, almost happy. He has unfurled his wings and he can manage flight. That’s good. It will get easier every time he practices, just like with the pencil. He can do this. He can keep himself free and on the run.

The small giddy grin that had graced Jack’s face for a moment slips down until it feels as low as the dirt. He is alone, now, well and truly. He realizes, with great horror, that he didn’t think to bring the laptop with him as he flew away from the bunker. The footage of his mother is lost to him forever now, and so her voice is hidden from him too.

He stares at his shoes. He is alone and it hurts something awful.

_But pain is a part of life,_ he repeats to himself.  _Accepting pain is a sign of maturity;_  Dean taught him that in the tattoo parlor. So he allows himself to feel his pain and acknowledge his loneliness. He steeps in it.

He looks around as his eyes begin to adjust to the world better. There are no people around him, and Jack is glad for that. (He was dreading crashing into somebody by accident.)

He recognizes this place. In front of him loom the mountains, doubled in the crystal mirror of the lake positioned at their feet. The few sparse pines on the shore sway lightly in the breeze. And to his left, there it stands: the house he was born in.

His walks slowly, treading lightly. He doesn’t leave so much as a footprint in the sand. He knows better. He should leave no trace of himself, not anywhere. As if he never existed. 

If only.

He walks up the steps, listening to them creak. He runs a hand over the sill of one of the ground-level windows, dusty and cracked. Paint chips off under his nail when he picks at it. The glass has gone spotty with age. One of the panels is cracked.

Jack tilts his head at it. He walks inside.

The downstairs is unremarkable. Small. Confining after growing accustomed to the vastness of the bunker, but he loves the clean smell of the mountain air. It’s cold up here. He doesn’t feel it, he just knows it to be true. He takes his time going up the stairs main, trailing his hand on the banister and staring at the empty walls. They would have hung pictures, he decides. Him and his mom. Pictures of them and of their family, of Castiel and Sam and Dean. He gets a splinter in his palm for his trouble.

One wall upstairs still says, “JACK” in big, happy letters. Hand-painted, he knows. He can feel his mother’s touch in every stroke of paint. He walks the path of his own footprints in the wood – scorched, singed, because he is an evil, smoldering thing – and reaches out to touch. The letters glow golden for a second when he reaches out and he doesn’t mean for them to.

He leans his forehead against the wall, right on the A. He breathes in the dust. He misses a life that never was and a person that he can never be.

He stretches his fledgling wings and takes off again, ever moving, ever a mystery.

Even still, his ears are tuned to one frequency, a rhythm and a cadence he knows so well only because he chose it, because the voices lulled him to sleep and to safety so many a time.

_“Anything?”_

_“No. Thanks. I put out an APB to every single hunter we know…”_

Jack closes his eyes and fights off an impending wave of nausea as the world twists and reshapes around him once again.


	9. 13.08 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waitin’ for the angel in the rain, in the rain, wait waitin’ for the angel in the rain  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/168072579138/1308-coda)

Dean fidgets in his too-big coat and his legs kick uselessly behind him as he grinds his elbows into the dirt. It’s pitch-black out and nearly freezing, so he doesn’t get very far in terms of comfort no matter what kind of adjusting he does. He sighs when Bobby doesn’t even twitch beside him.

“How long is this going to take?” he asks, in a loud whisper that most fourteen-year-olds perfect in study hall, and that Dean perfected in dark motel rooms.

Bobby shushes him, rifle cocked expertly on his shoulder. “It takes however long it takes,” he grumbles back.

An hour later, as Dean shivers in the cold with his chest to the ground, a ten-point buck steps into their clearing. Bobby pulls the trigger and the shot echoes through the dark. The deer goes down so hard that Dean can hear its skull crack against the earth.

Bobby sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and laughs once, victorious. “Alright, boy. Get up.”

Dean shakily gets to his feet, teeth chattering, and shakes out his arms to get the blood flowing to his hands again. Together, they stalk towards their prize.

“Hunting’s a waiting game,” Bobby tells him, unreserved with his volume now. His voice carries through the trees. “Don’t you forget that, Dean.”

_Sure,_  he grumbles to himself, under breath that fogs in front of his face.  _A waiting game._

He doesn’t forget it.

 

The thing is, Dean’s never been very good at waiting. He’s restless by nature, always moving, always doing. That’s the curse you inherit when you grow up on the road, chasing omens. And even though he’s had twenty odd years to get used to the slower parts of this job, they never make him itch any less.

“How long does a demon summoning spell take?” Smash asks him, a kindred spirit that doesn’t look all too impressed with him.

She can’t be much older than Dean was when he learned this lesson, and it turns out she’s got the very same energy drinks to prove it. She’s young, she doesn’t get it. Doesn’t know how to wait, just like he didn’t know. Or didn’t care to, really.

He knows that the remark is just a change in subject, but he feels like he gets her a little better, just from this brief shared moment. He hurries it up and finishes the spell with rough and practiced hands.

He briefly wonders if he had as much attitude as Smash does.

 

Dragged through a different forest on a different night on a different hunt, Dean finds himself experiencing some karmic déjà vu when he grumps, “How much longer?” 

His blood simmers beneath his skin, drawn to their next step, to the next phase of the plan, but admittedly not all of it is compulsion from Grab’s spell. Sam’s trapped in a house with a weirdo all by himself and time is not something they’ve ever had in great supply; Dean’s always anxious to finish a job, especially more so when his brother’s safety is on the line. He can probably blame some childhood trauma for that, for the anxiety that comes with waiting. It’s probably some abandonment thing. Whatever.

“It takes as long as it takes,” Grab tells him, splaying his hands.

He’s less kind about this than Bobby was. Dean just grits his teeth and goes with it, but with every step he takes it’s harder to ignore the bad feeling metastasizing in his gut.

 

He barely resists tapping his foot as Smash sticks her stethoscope up to the safe and begins to twist the knob. She goes slowly, carefully, almost leisurely. Dean has no doubt that she really is a master at this, at cracking codes to get under the surface, but, again, the standing around is weighing on him.

“How long does this usually - ”

She shushes him before he can even finish asking.

He can feel Sam watching him for a minute, a quick up and down, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He stays quiet and is rewarded for his patience, such that it is.

 

Maybe it’s the illegal amounts of caffeine finally taking effect on his system, but Dean gets anxious to call Cas the minute they drop Alice off at the bus station.  _Dude. Feels like yesterday we got to play cowboy, and today I got to be Indiana Jones. Life doesn’t suck, actually._

And after his talk with Sam in the kitchen, he’s feeling good. So once Sam has returned back to his laptop, back to the grind, Dean pulls out his phone. He dials Castiel’s number from memory, and waits.

And waits. And waits.

_This is my voice mail. Make your voice… a mail._

Dean sighs when he gets to the beep. It’s a sound he knows all too well, but he can’t say that it’s one of his favorites.

“Hey, Cas,” he murmurs, hanging his head. He scratches a fingernail against the grain of the kitchen table. “Just calling to check in. Thought we had a lead on Jack, but it ended up goin’ nowhere. Anyway, uh. Talk soon.”

He hangs up. He puts his phone with its dark screen face up on the table in front of him.

And waits. And waits.

What nobody thought to teach him – maybe what his mom would have taught him, if she were around back then – is that love is a waiting game, too.

* * *

Dean clicks through the channels on the small TV that he’s pulled into his room, but he doesn’t really see what’s on. He’s passed through the entire selection of their cable package at least twice now, but he just keeps on clicking. He blows out a breath and leans his head back against his pillows, smashing them down with his cheeks to try and get more comfortable. He subtly eyes his phone on the nightstand.

He stops for a second, finger hovering above the abused channel button. He squints.

“Hey, Sam!” he yells, laughing. “Entrapment’s playing on TNT!”

For a minute Dean isn’t sure that his voice has carried through his mostly-shut door all the way to the library, but soon enough Dean hears a quiet, “You’re a jerk,” float down his way.

He laughs again and keeps clicking.

There’s no real way around it: he’s bored. They’ve still got nothing on Jack, Jody’s working a case and isn’t around to chat much, and the lore has dried up when it comes to opening up other dimensions.

Dean looks over to his computer, sitting idle next to him on the mattress.

_Well_ , he figures,  _there’s always porn._

He purses his lips and takes stock of himself for a second. Is now a good time? Does he even feel like it? 

_Yeah, why not._

Dean clicks off the TV and gets up, a little bounce in his step as he goes to his door. He peeks down the hall, up and then down a little self-consciously before carefully closing his door all the way, as quietly as he can so the sound of the lock clicking won’t carry. Dean smacks the lights on his way back to bed and kicks off his boots, a lazy grin working its way onto his face as he unbuttons his jeans. He’s excited now that he’s really committed to the idea.

Dean groans as he flops back down on his bed, wiggling back into the firm cradle of his mattress (god bless memory foam). His laptop gets dragged a little closer, not touching any part of Dean but occupying that empty space beside him. His headphones, lying on the nightstand beside him, are already clutched hopelessly in his fist, and he fixes them around his neck in preparation while he types in the urls for his favorite sites.

He shoves an impatient hand down the front of his pants as he waits for them to load and scrolls through the videos on the homepage, searching for that perfect clip that’s going to get him off nice and hot. He hisses through his teeth as he closes his fist around himself, getting worked up before he can even find anything to watch. Every video he scrolls past is not good enough, not quite what he wants, not doing it for him - how long is it going to take to find what he needs? The girls in these thumbnails all look bored. He slides his thumb over the head of his cock and bites back a groan, eyes squeezing shut.

_Screw it_ , Dean thinks, slamming the laptop closed. 

His headphones lay abandoned around his neck, but he likes the hint of pressure there so he leaves them. He’s too focused on the lazy movements of his hand pushing up his dark Henley anyway, thumbing at his skin while his fist works through the teeth of his open jeans. He throws his head back against his pillow and moans, mouth wide and unabashed.

There’s no one but him and he feels safe in the dark, so if between his panting breaths he manages to grunt out a rough, “ _Cas_ ,” he doesn’t even pause to feel guilty about it.

It’s the name that does it for him, that forces the breath from his lungs and his hips up into a Pavlovian jerk. He’s way too close and way too easy, so Dean swallows back his next noise and stills.

_Wait a little bit,_ he tells himself.  _It’ll feel better if you wait it out. _Love is a waiting game.__

He squeezes the base, hand slick now, and lays trembling on top of the sheets. He can feel the individual drops of sweat beading along his hairline, the harsh sting where his every ridge of his teeth cut into his lip. He drags the blunt fingernails of his free hand down his own chest and sighs, thighs clenching around nothing.

“Cas,” he moans again, to no one but his dark room.

With rolling circles and gentle moves, he draws himself towards the edge again. He thinks about Castiel and his broad, tan hands, how he would touch Dean with all the otherworldly reverence and patience that Dean doesn’t have and kiss him so slowly, so softly that Dean wouldn’t even realize it was happening until they’d break apart for air. Dean keeps his eyes shut and he thinks about Castiel’s thick arms boxing him in, his deep blue eyes, that  _ass -_

He doesn’t chase after it. He waits, and release comes to him, a slow burn and an endless fall.

Dean quakes through it, mouthing sacred syllables that might just qualify as prayer, and sinks, boneless, into a steady sleep.

_Worth the wait,_  he thinks to himself, grinning. 

_I’m going to make it worth the wait when he comes home._

* * *

Despite his earlier good mood, Dean dreams of Hellfire. 

That mission with Bart hit way too close to home, but Dean had thought he’d gotten a handle on it. Turns out his subconscious was just waiting for him to get comfortable before it sprung mortal terror out of its box. For a few horrible minutes that feel more like hours, Dean is back on the Rack, hopeless and praying for a salvation that won’t ever come for him.

He bolts awake with a spasm and a shout half-caught in his throat, clawing at the hands grabbing around his neck that turn out just to be the headphones he fell asleep with. He yanks them off and tosses them to the floor with a clatter before he pulls himself up, patting down his chest.

_Intact,_ he assures himself.  _No hellhound claw marks. No meat hooks skewering your organs. You’re fine, you’re home, you’re safe._

He reaches out, instinctively, to the other side of the bed, but no one’s there. No one’s slept in that space since the day before Dodge City, when he got a few precious minutes to pull an equally intact Castiel against his chest and snooze in the afterglow of resurrection.

Instead of fixating on the empty space beside him, he makes a grab for his phone. He has to squint against the brightness in the dark, but he swipes open his text messages without any hesitation.

No new messages. Radio silence.

Dean huffs a breath and presses his phone to his forehead, like he’d be able to telepathically make it ring just through the contact alone.

“Fucking call me back,” he whispers, jaw clenched.

_Have a little faith,_ one part of him says.  _He’ll come back to you, he always comes back. You just gotta wait. You gotta be patient._

_This is just the life, and you know it._

But another part of him, the same childish part that’s crouched lying in wait in the cold and the silence, asks, _Why? Why do I always have to stay behind?_

Dean’s breath hitches, but he gets it under control quickly enough. He puts his phone back on his nightstand and drags his clean hand down his face, smearing the sweat and the few involuntary tears leftover from his dream.

He can convince himself all he wants that “absence makes the heart grow fonder” or some shit like that, but there is one thing that Dean knows about himself and it’s that he never feels good sitting around useless and alone. Love doesn’t do anybody any good if it’s not keeping you warm at night.

The part of him that pleads for patience wins out, but only because he’s too exhausted to fight. Dean clumsily kicks off his jeans and worms his way under the sheets, and then turns towards the empty space in the bed.

_How long is it going to take this time?_  he asks himself.  _How much longer until something changes?_

He rolls over, away from the space where something else should be. “Takes as long as it takes,” he reminds himself, in a private whisper.

That’s fine.

He’ll just wait here.


	10. 13.09 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/168317368818/1309-coda)

“You gonna call Cas?” Sam asks, eyes trained on his laptop. 

He’s been alternating between combing through security camera footage for possible Jack sightings and searching for another copy of Bart’s tracking spell for what feels like days, and it feels like he’s hit a good point to take a break. This is what they usually do on their breaks: check in with one another.

But Dean… hesitates when he suggests it now.

So Sam looks up.

“Dean? You hear me?”

Dean nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he does when he’s unhappy. “Yeah, I heard you.”

He doesn’t move from where he’s standing on the other side of the war table. Sam is about to ask what’s wrong with him when Dean beats him to it. 

“I think you should do it.”

Sam reels, frowning. “Me? Why?” Dean’s eyes narrow incrementally before Sam hurriedly adds, “ _You_  usually call him. [He always answers when it’s you.](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DUMWv14psPHY&t=YTgwN2RiMzVkYTliODM2MGJlNDVkYjQ1NjMxZmJhMzI1ODJmOTllZCxqdFBnNGUyMA%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168317368818%2F1309-coda&m=1)”

Dean rolls his eyes. “That was one time, ok? Let it go.”

Sam scoffs. “It was, uh, more than once. But.”

Dean doesn’t look amused, so Sam decides to spare himself the angst and just throws up his hands. “Ok, I’ll give him a call.”

Dean nods. “Thanks. I’m gonna go make a food run.”

He turns and leaves the room then, hanging his head as he goes. Sam watches him go, confused and frustrated.

That was certainly… out of character.

Sam shakes his head, bringing both his hands up to his face. He scrubs angrily down his cheeks, noting that he could probably stand a shave. His eyes feel too dry. When did he sleep last? Brush his teeth? He’s been staring at too many screens, he thinks. 

But he takes one for the team and scrolls through his contact listings to pull up Castiel’s latest cell number, thumbing wearily at the call button. This is just another part of the well-oiled Team Free Will machine.

“Yes?” comes the familiar, gravelly voice.

Sam can’t help smiling a little at the sound. “Hey, Cas, it’s Sam. Just calling to check in, make sure everything’s ok on your end.”

“It’s fine, Sam.”

Sam waits for an explanation, but in typical Castiel fashion, no further information follows. 

“So, any more news from the angels?” he prompts. “Any leads on Jack? Run into any demons? What do you got for us, man?”

Castiel sighs, which is admittedly not unlike him. “I’m following a lead in… Tucson. I can’t talk for very long, Sam, I’m busy.”

Sam nods. “Right, totally get it. But, uh, hey. Before you go - do you know what’s up with Dean?”

Castiel is quiet on the other end of the line for a long minute before he answers, “I’m not aware, no.”

Right, so,  _that’s_  obviously bullshit. Sam just hums. “Ok, well. Thanks anyway. Good luck in Arizona.”

“Yeah.”

The line clicks off. Sam sets his cell phone back down on the table and blows out a breath. His stomach rumbles almost in sync, and he has to seriously applaud Dean’s instincts for running to get food just now. He always seems to know what’s going on before Sam himself does, even if it’s just an empty stomach.

He clicks through his email waiting for Dean to get back and contemplates turning in early, but ultimately decides against it. Dean’s on the phone again with Patience not half an hour later, bag of takeout firmly in hand.

“Any word from Cas?” he asks once he hangs up, voice low and without making eye contact.

“Yeah, uh. He says he’s still looking for Jack. Working a lead in Tucson.”

Dean doesn’t reply. He’s saved from doing so by the phone ringing, and it isn’t even who Sam expected it to be.

Hm.

 

It’s a piece of graffiti that reminds him of the weirdness of the phone call thing. Tension has been hanging over them all day, thick like a blanket. Sam’s sitting in the car waiting for Dean to get back with some coffee, and in between turning pages in Dad’s journal and scrolling through a dead dreamwalker’s email his eyes catch on painted wings plastered on the brick wall in front of him.

“Huh,” he says aloud. Because that’s always the answer when it comes to Dean, isn’t it?

Dean returns shortly and they head out to the facility where Kaia’s currently staying, Sam relaying directions until they’re comfortably cruising down the highway. He keeps the image of the wall art in his head as they roll past road signs and mile markers. When they’re about ten miles into it, Sam decides to risk it and clear his throat.

“So,” he begins. “You want to tell me what’s up with you and Cas lately?”

Dean’s mouth twitches and his hands clench incrementally on the steering wheel. “No.”

Sam nods. “Right.”

Dean shifts in his seat, wincing a little when his sore shoulders pull with the motion. “He just.” 

He gives up on his sentence and shakes his head.

“He just what?” Sam asks.

Twin dimples appear at the top of Dean’s mouth. “Something’s off with him. I don’t know whether it’s something leftover from the Empty or what, but…”

Sam matches Dean’s frown with one of his own, turning more fully in his seat to look at him. “He sounded normal to me this morning,” he says. “How can you tell?”

Dean shrugs. “Well, he… you know. He, uh.”

Sam narrows his eyes.

Dean relents.

“He doesn’t… he doesn’t always pick up like he used to,” Dean mumbles.

Sam processes this. Blinks a few times. Dean bears his scrutiny in silence.

“You’re giving Cas the cold shoulder because he hasn’t been taking your calls?” Sam repeats.

Dean blows out a sigh. “It’s not like - ”

“Wow,” Sam interrupts. “Are you twelve?”

Dean sniffs. “Look, things are just - I thought that things would be different after he came back, alright? And obviously they’re not. Our lives are still shit and he’s still not here and, yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled about it.”

Sam watches his brother’s brow dip, sadly now and not in anger. “It’s like he doesn’t even  _want_  - ”

Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Whatever.”

Sam regards him again in a new light, this time with a little more sympathy. His brother is right that it’s not fair for them to have to go it alone like this so soon after finding one another again, but some things just can’t be helped. This is the job. This is the life they both signed up for, and it does get lonely. Sam can’t really blame his brother for taking that out on everyone that leaves him in the dust.

And the emotion in Dean’s eyes when he saw Castiel waiting under that streetlight was impossible to ignore. He knows it cuts deep that Castiel has a new priority.

“Dean,” Sam says, as delicately as he’s able. “You called Patience Turner six times today. And she didn’t pick up either.”

Dean’s jaw works for a second. “Yeah. So?”

“ _So_ , maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to pick up? I think you might just be a little…” Sam shrugs. “Um. Clingy?”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

“No, I mean - ” Sam huffs, smacking his head back against the headrest. “I  _mean_  that you’re letting the stress get to you, man. It’s making you see things that aren’t there. It’s not some big conspiracy, ok? Cas is fine. He’ll be home before you know it. You don’t need to have me running interference for you.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Sam. I’ve just got a bad feeling. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be for - for us.”

Sam thinks that’s going to be the end of it, but he’s wrong.

“And…” Dean adds, deflating a little. “And I miss him.”

Sam purses his lips and turns to look out the windshield. “Yeah. Yeah, I know you do.”

They drive the rest of the way to Kaia in silence, and it’s only a matter of time before everything predictably goes to shit once again.

They wake up in a freaky new world with no way home, and tied to a tree in an unfamiliar and humid forest Sam finds himself hoping and praying that someone,  _anyone_ , is listening. 

The drama can wait for another time, but some small part of him (the part that’s not too busy running from  _dinosaurs_ ) really does hope that Dean doesn’t die here before he and Cas can sort themselves out.

* * *

Castiel sits on the floor of his cell with his eyes tightly shut. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, naturally, but it is not meant to mistaken as a sign of comfort. He is gathering his energy, centering himself, finding his focus, and listening.

He is developing an escape plan.

“Hey,” a voice whispers to his left. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel breathes out a low, irritated hum. “Go away,” he intones, in the way that a yoga instructor might say  _om._

Lucifer responds with what could almost be classified as a whine. “You’re really just going to sit here? At a time like this? Thought you were a man of action.”

Castiel doesn’t move. He breathes. He listens. “I’m waiting.”

“Oh for the love of - waiting for  _what_?”

“Anything,” Castiel replies, brow furrowing. He’s beginning to lose his concentration. “Leave me alone.”

Lucifer scoffs but he abides, if only for a minute.

Castiel takes another breath. For days now he has been holding onto the familiar ache pressing on his chest as a tether to the outside world, as a source of strength and hope. 

Dean’s longing grows more intense every day that they are apart, and this time Castiel finds himself grateful for it. It’s been his constant companion in this dank, rotten hole in the world that he has been forced to inhabit at present. His reminder that love is alive, and that he has a reason to get up and keep fighting.

_Soon enough,_ Castiel thinks to himself,  _the demons will make a mistake. I will have learned their routines, they’ll expose a weakness in this facility, and I’ll follow this feeling back to the Winchesters._  He repeats it like a mantra, a clear plan of attack.

It certainly makes him feel more useful than sitting around waiting for Asmodeus’s underlings to come around and prod him for information that he just doesn’t have. He’s anxious to put it into practice.

He misses his family. He misses Dean. He escaped one prison just to fall right into another.

“Cas, seriously,” Lucifer says. “This isn’t fun anymore. I’m ready to leave. When are we getting out of here.”

A small growl rumbles forth from behind Castiel’s teeth. “If you’d just let me  _concentrate,_  maybe I could figure a way - ”

Suddenly, the very air seems to shift around him to the quiet sound of the entire universe rearranging itself. Castiel’s breath is stolen away as the weight is lifted away from him, like a cable between two poles being snapped in half and stinging on the recoil.

Dean’s longing is entirely gone. Cut off, abruptly, unable to be sensed. Castiel can trace no piece of it.

“No,” Castiel mumbles, feeling tears spring to his eyes.

Lucifer frowns against the bars of their cells. “Problem?”

It’s as constant as the north star. It’s his trail of breadcrumbs, and has been for so many years. Dean is steadfast and loyal and oh so very dear, and Castiel knows, knows viscerally that the only reason he wouldn’t be able to sense Dean aching for him across time and space is because Dean is -

Castiel jumps to his feet and rattles the bars with his hands, eyes wild. 

“Asmodeus!” he thunders. “Asmodeus, what did you do!”

He doesn’t get a response, but he does hear a dark laugh echo down the hallway. Castiel is furious, rage overtaking his panic like a wildfire. If that abomination so much as touched him -

_No,_ he tells himself.  _Dean is not dead. But you’re going to have to make sure for yourself._

Cunning and scheming be damned. He is getting out of here, tonight, and he is going to find Dean.

“Help me with this,” Castiel demands, pressing close to Lucifer’s face. “Help me destroy them and I will personally ensure that you have an audience with Jack.”

Lucifer’s eyes glow red, flickering in the low light as a slow smile spreads up his face. 

“You got it, bro.”


	11. 13.10 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOO I’M BACK. THIS IS LATE. AND WRITTEN WITHOUT ANY KNOWLEDGE OF 13.11, 13.12, OR 13.13. HOPE YOU ENJOY ANYWAY.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/170748901428/1310-coda)

“You know,” Dean says, kicking away some dead leaves with the toe of his boot, “If we die in here, I’m going to be pretty pissed off.”

Sam parts a partition of ferns with his hands, and gets scratched in the cheek by a twig for his trouble. “Yeah?” he asks, breathlessly.

Perhaps when being chased by an unidentified monster in another dimension is not the best time to have a brotherly heart-to-heart, but Dean’s voice does center him a little. The conversation reminds him to breathe regularly and to calm his pulse as much as he’s able, high as it is careening through unfamiliar jungle. An iridescent beetle the size of his ear scuttles just out of reach as he catches himself on a tree trunk.

“Yeah,” Sam answers himself. “Me too.”

Dean huffs and launches himself past an overturned log. “I mean, dude. I never even – we never even said goodbye to Cas.”

Sam frowns. “Oh. Shit. He’s probably worried.”

Dean grunts as he smacks some foliage out of his face. “More like furious. You think he’d grab us from the Empty if we  _did_  bite it?”

Sam makes a considering sound. “He and the Empty do have a rapport.”

“Less than friendly though, I think.”

A tinny roar sounds in the distance, and Dean picks up his pace with a muffled swear. To Sam’s surprise, he quickly outruns him, speeding ahead.

“If you had some of that lizard protein earlier, you might be able to keep up!” Dean shouts over his shoulder.

Sam breathes deep through his nose and pushes himself further. Survive first. Talk later.

 

When they finally do make it out, the moment is bittersweet.

“No!” Claire yells, the single syllable run through with cracks. Dean, shocked, stares at the spot where the portal used to be like he can still see the dead body behind it.

Claire collapses into Jody’s arms, and Dean can see her tears freely flowing but he just can’t make himself move. Jody strokes Claire’s hair, presses her lips to her forehead, and everyone stands around watching, too afraid to move.

“I couldn’t save her,” Claire weeps. “I promised I’d protect her. She pushed me out of the way.”

That gets Dean’s feet moving again. He drops right to Claire’s other side, reaching for her hands. “Hey,” he croaks. “Hey, listen to me.”

_Another dead world. Another rift closing behind him. Another one left behind to die._

_“Cas!”_

Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight, and squeezes Claire’s hands in his own in the same motion. She squeezes feebly back.

“I know it hurts,” he mumbles to her, head bowed. “I know. I know.” And his own voice breaks.

Claire lets her head fall back against the concrete, worn down to the bone, and lets Jody and Dean care for her, lets them murmur in her ear about how it isn’t her fault. When she’s too tired to fight anymore, she lets them hoist her up to her feet. Unsteady, she wavers. Dean catches her around the waist and holds her tight. She fists her hands in his jacket.

“I got her,” he says in Jody’s direction.

Sam takes Jody’s arm and leads her ahead to the other girls, who all fuss over him anyway. Patience looks a little shaky, a little green, so Sam ducks his head her way first.

Claire heaves another sob. “She trusted me.”

Dean walks with her, slower than the rest of the pack, and nods. He tries to think of what would have helped him to hear when he lost Castiel through the wormhole in Washington. He doesn’t think anything would, so he keeps coming up blank for her.

“I really liked her,” Claire confesses at last, wobbly and thick.

Dean’s heart catches. He swallows. “It’s a bitch,” he tells her.

“Why did you  _stop me_?” Claire asks him.

He thinks of Sam’s arms around his chest, pulling him through the rift of the Apocalypse world. Staring at Castiel’s back as his brother dragged him away from a fight he knew he was meant to be part of. He’d been angry, too.

“I’m going to rip that thing apart,” Claire snarls, and Dean knows she means it. “I’m going to find it and I’m going to make sure it knows what it did.”

Dean nods. “You should.”

Claire nods, satisfied, and tries to carry herself a little straighter. She wipes her nose with her sleeve and shoves Dean away, taking the next few steps on her own. He lets her. 

Rage is a powerful motivator. With a thirst for revenge, you can sustain yourself for a long time. He watched his dad do it for decades.

He sticks close by her side, though, just in case. She’s only a kid. She’s already lost so much and he knows from experience that there’s only so much a person can take.

They don’t speak on the way home. Claire gets into the car with Patience and Alex while Jody and Donna each head back on their own. Sam and Dean follow in the Impala. Dean pats her hood as he slides back into the driver’s seat.

“Missed you, Baby,” he says.

Sam quirks a smile at his brother from where he sits in the passenger seat. His phone beeps in his hand.

“Hey! Reception’s back.”

Dean smiles too, despite himself. “So how many frantic text messages from our favorite tree topper you got?”

Sam laughs as Dean pulls out of the shipyard, but clicks through his phone pretty silently for the next few minutes. His smile fades more and more as the seconds pass.

“Um… hm,” he says, brow furrowing.

Dean frowns too, out of instinct. “What?”

Sam shakes his head. “Maybe, uh. Maybe check yours.”

Dean fishes his cell out of his pocket – miraculously intact after their tropical romp through dinosaur world – and taps in his passcode.

He’s got no new messages and no missed calls, apart from Jody.

Dean frowns down at the screen. “You think maybe they need a minute to buffer, or something?”

Sam shakes his head. “We’ve been out long enough. Everything should be really up to date.”

Dean frowns. “And not one peep from Cas.”

“Uh. No. No, doesn’t look like it.”

Dean slips his phone back into his pocket. “Well,” he says. He opens his mouth to say something more, but ends up closing it. He just shakes his head. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Dean forces a smirk. “Must be busy. You know how he gets.”

Sam chews on the inside of his lip. “It’s been days, Dean.”

“I know how long it’s been,” he snaps back.

Sam just looks sadder, more pinched around the mouth, and Dean immediately regrets it.

“Look, just – ” he starts, holding up a hand. “It’s fine. He’s fine. Right? It’s all good. Don’t want him worrying himself anyway.”

Sam blinks, long and slow. Dean can sense a fight rising in him, but his little brother is good enough to let it go for now. “Ok, Dean.”

 

Leaving Sioux Falls always leaves a lump in the brothers’ throats, but it’s even worse when they know that somebody’s hurting, and hurting bad. Claire’s brave face had cracked by the time they made it back to Jody’s house – which was absolutely trashed, unfortunately – and she quickly rushed inside without another word to anyone. Dean watched her go with a chip on his shoulder, but hugged Jody goodbye as sincerely as was deserved.

He bites his lip as he hits the accelerator away from the house and nods in Sam’s direction. 

“Why don’t you give the angel a call,” he suggests.

Sam sighs. He thumbs open his phone and hits Castiel’s contact number.

Even from the driver’s seat, Dean can hear it ringing.

And ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

He slams his hand on the steering wheel when the voicemail finally starts to play.

Sam lowers the phone.

“Fucking bullshit,” Dean mutters. He laughs once, empty. “No, we’re fine, Cas, no worries. It’s not like we were almost fed to Godzilla in another dimension. Not like we just got you back from the dead or anything. We don’t need to hear from you. Totally cool here.”

Sam watches him, silently. He slides his thumb over his dark phone screen a few times.

Dean sighs and slumps back into his seat. “Whatever, man. He’ll call us when he needs something, I guess.”

Sam shakes his head. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like, Sam? Huh?” Dean asks, hitting the accelerator just a little bit harder. “Our options are either that he doesn’t want to talk to us, or that something bad happened to him. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t like either of ‘em.”

Sam reaches out and squeezes his brother’s shoulder. “We’ve had a rough couple of days. Let’s just get back home and regroup. Ok?”

Dean blows out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. And like you said. Cas is probably fine.”

Dean allows himself a quick moment to close his eyes. All he can see is Claire’s teary face fixed behind his eyelids.

Losing someone never gets easier. He hates that someone so young had to learn so hard a lesson. He hates that the older he gets, he’s never really stopped.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Fine.”


	12. 13.11 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written without knowledge of 13.12 or 13.13.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/170753158158/1311-coda)

“Doug,” Dean starts, bracing himself, “You’re a good guy. And you’re going to be there for Donna.”

Doug nods, certain as the sun will rise. “You betcha.”

It does make his heart happy to hear that. Donna’s good people; she deserves someone that will stick by her side, come what may. Dean’s hoping that Doug is going to be that someone, so he’s going to give him the best advice he’s got. Stuff that he’s still working on himself, if he’s being totally honest.

“So, you know. Just trust her.”

Doug nods and gives Dean a shaky smile. Dean nods back at him and adjusts his position in the driver’s seat, ready to get out and start his questioning in the truck stop. The air’s cold enough outside where condensation is sticking to the Impala’s windows.

“Hey,” Doug abruptly says, shooting his hand out. He grips Dean’s forearm and cuts off his exit. “Thanks. You seem to really know what you’re talking about.”

Dean laughs, and a little uncomfortably at that. “Nah, not really. I just, uh. I know Donna. I know the kind of life she leads.”

Doug frowns, but he releases Dean’s arm. “Right. Being an FBI agent and all.”

Dean nods and moves towards the door handle again.

“Does it get ever hard for you?” Doug asks. “And your, uh, you know.” He makes a vague gesture in Dean’s direction with his hand, coloring a bit. “Whoever’s waitin’ at home?”

Dean nearly chokes on the next breath he takes, but instead it just ends up going straight through him, like he’s hollow inside. “Nah. I, uh. I…”

_Don’t really have anyone waiting at home,_ he wants to say.

But his cellphone weighs heavy in his pocket, and gives him pause.

He had sulked around in his usual manner for a few days after coming back through the rift from dinosaur world – Claire’s pain and the failure to recover his mother weighing on him, with radio silence from Castiel not really helping things – but his bad mood magically vanished once his phone went off not a day later with a new text from Cas. Quick to forgive, Dean lost himself to their old texting habits, emojis and all, and before he knew it he was right back to making pancakes for breakfast in the morning.

So, yeah. The hunting life, it’s hard. There are always emotional ups and downs. But Dean’s in a good place right now. And if this last year has taught him anything, it’s that he’s got to keep some faith if he wants any chance at happiness.

So what he says to Doug instead is, “I don’t really think he minds.”

Doug’s bushy eyebrows pop up a little higher, but he doesn’t flinch away at the pronoun usage and he certainly doesn’t look outright disgusted, which is more than Dean could have hoped for in a town like this.

“Well, that’s just swell,” Doug squeaks, and Dean’s decided that’s enough. It’s time to get back to work, now.

 

He had such high hopes.  _Such_  high hopes for Doug. Pure, sweet Doug, who thought he knew what he was getting into.

Dean would be a lot angrier than he is right now if he didn’t see the agony in his eyes. He only ever looks at Donna, even as he turns away, and it haunts him. Dean can see the tears collecting there at the edges, born of fear and regret, of loss and of shame.

And he understands. He’s been in Donna’s position before. The scars that Cassie left in him when she reacted the same way still haven’t fully healed. It still hurts to watch Doug go.

But even Cassie came around with enough time and distance. And Doug, he’s not heartless. He’s not a coward, not really. Dean knows that there’s still hope here. He knows that if Donna keeps up an effort and stays brave –

“Donna,” Sam says, hoarse. 

And here it comes, Dean thinks. The wise words from Sam Winchester about patience and empathy, saying everything he never could for a friend in need.

“When you choose this life, anyone who gets too close? Eventually they get hurt. Or worse.”

Dean tilts his head. He’s not entirely sure where Sam’s going with this one, but he wouldn’t say anything hurtful. That’s not his style.

“So let him go,” Sam tells her, just like that, and Dean feels himself frown. “He’ll be safer that way.”

Sam steps away, and Dean is almost about to call him back, whiplashed. Before he gets the chance to, he sees Donna bow her head out of the corner of his eye, and clasps her shoulder tight with his hand. She sniffs, and he buckles.

“Hey,” he soothes, pulling her in. “Hey, ok.”

Donna shakes her head against his chest. “It’s fine,” she mumbles. “I’m fine. I’m just being silly.”

Dean rubs a large circle into her back. “No, you’re not,” he says. He pulls back from the hug to look into her watery eyes. “Look. Don’t give up, ok? Hang in there. I promise it’s worth it.”

Donna nods, but Dean can see that her heart’s not in it. She’s hurting, hurting bad, and he’s got to leave her behind to work through it on her own.

“You have my number. Any time you want to talk, ok? I’m here. Don’t know what’s up with RoboSam.”

That gets him a shaky laugh, and Donna nods. “Thanks, Dean. For everything. You’ve been a real pal.”

Dean squeezes her again and then heads out after Sam, back to the Impala.

 

Sam’s usually the one that starts these chats, but Dean doesn’t think he’ll get anything out of him that isn’t pried loose.

“You were a little tough on Donna back there,” he says, trying to keep his tone neutral. It’s the same voice he used on teen-angsting!Sam back in the day.

Sam only looks confused. “What?”

Dean shrugs. “Just saying.”

With a smug look that savors strongly of bitterness, Sam asks, “Was I wrong? I mean, when has knowing us ever worked out? For anyone.”

Dean does have to concede that point. Not often – hell, hardly ever – does it work out happily for an acquaintance of a Winchester.

But. 

There  _are_  success stories. One in particular, actually. One spanner in the works that keeps coming back to them, that just doesn’t seem to take death for an answer and who knows every in and out of the hunter’s life and hasn’t turned his back.

And if just one person can survive the Winchester curse, maybe that means there’s hope for all of them. Maybe that means the world isn’t actually so cruel.

It’s that hope that keeps Dean talking in the car right now. He told Sam that he’d be here to pull him through his funk, and this is how he’s going to do it. 

With hope. With faith.

“We save people, Sam.”

But Sam’s not buying it. “Yeah, we also get people killed, Dean. Kaia, for instance? She helped us. And she died for it.”

Dean shakes his head. “Hey, look. I know you’re in some sort of a – ”

“No, no no no no,” Sam cuts in. “Don’t – don’t – You keep saying I’m in a dark place, but I’m not, Dean. Everything I’m saying is the truth. It’s our lives. And I tried to pretend it didn’t have to be. I tried to pretend we could have Mom back, and Cas, and help Jack, but we can’t.”

And, ouch, ok, that does cut a little deep. Because Castiel might be alive and kicking, but he’s sure as hell not by their sides right now. It’s the one rain cloud darkening Dean’s newfound optimism and Sam knew exactly how to draw it out.

“This ends one way for us, Dean,” he says, with such certainty that it’s a little sad. “It ends bloody.”

Dean’s face sets into something harder, something a little less hopeful.

“It ends bad.”

_But maybe it doesn’t have to,_  he thinks to himself.  _If you can find the one person that sticks it out, maybe it can end up ok. Good, even. In its own way._

He thinks about Castiel, and about devotion. About acceptance, and – yes, he dares to think it – and about love. About the regret in Doug’s eyes, about the chance at being something more, even if it terrifies you.

Dean shakes his head. “If you say so, Sam.”

Sam throws a suspicious look his way, but he doesn’t say anything else. He leans his forehead against the cool glass of the windows and sighs.

It’s alright. Dean can be the proof that Sam needs. He can hold himself ( _and Cas,_  he thinks) to that promise, if nothing else.


	13. 13.12 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing my catch-up coda spam, here’s the next one! Written without any knowledge of 13.13.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/170802657533/1312-coda)  
> One of my favorite artists also did art for this coda! You can find that piece by [hellosaidthemoonisafangirl](http://www.hellosaidthemoonisafangirl.tumblr.com/) [here.](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/171329515543/hellosaidthemoonisafangirl-i-got-inspired-by)

It was kind of nice.

Not mind control. Mind control is never nice. Having his feelings messed with always leaves a roiling pit like Charybdis in the bottom of Dean’s stomach, a sort of disgust that won’t ever manifest as anything other than shame.

But it was kind of nice to just enjoy being in love for a minute.

It’s not like he wasn’t aware of what was going on. He remembers everything that happened while under the spell, from the lightweight giddiness he felt when Jamie smiled at him to the deep pride and contentedness that settled in his bones as Sam initially just rolled with it.  _I’m in love_ , he had said, and Sam looked almost pleased for a moment.

Maybe it also should have bothered him to know how far he’d be willing to go for love. Knocking out his own brother. Choking out  _Sammy_ against the Impala’s front bumper in a  _parking lot._ Maybe it  _should_  bother him more, but deep down Dean’s always known that love would be his undoing some day. He’s always held too tightly to the things that matter most to him – it’s even saved his life a couple times. So that part, at least, is predictable, and he can’t really find it in himself to be surprised.

Being loud in love, though, he’s never been that way. He keeps his cards close to his chest, usually. There’s something freeing in just being able to say what you feel, though; to smile without caring who sees and to think without a filter about the exact way her hair falls, the color of her eyes, the way she leans in closer. No policing, no censoring, no self-consciousness. Just pure, uncomplicated feeling.

Dean was in love, and he let himself be for a short time. He didn’t fight it.

It was nice.

He was happier.

He finished his beer off a while ago, so he gently slides the empty bottle out of his sightline. He stares down at the grimoire on the table instead, with its missing page, and winces when his battered knee gives a sudden twinge. He presses his package of frozen vegetables a little closer to the skin and shifts, grimacing. He toys with the corner of the book distractedly.

 _What would it be like?_  he wonders, alone in the kitchen, in the place he feels most safe in the world apart from his car.  _What would it be like if it were real?_

He takes a breath and looks around. He can’t hear anything moving in the bunker’s halls, so he leans his head back against the wall and nods. Shifts his shoulders. He closes his eyes and murmurs to himself, just to try it out.

“I’m in love,” he says, to no one and nothing but himself.

He lets it settle in the air for a minute and fights every impulse to run, to get up from this spot and leave the foolish words where they are and pretend like it never happened. His hand flexes in the plastic of the vegetable package and he takes another breath. He forces himself to sit still and listen to the echo.

“I’m in love,” he repeats, a little louder, and lets some of the tension out of his shoulders.

It’s not as easy to say as when he was under the spell, but then, that wasn’t even real love, was it? Real love is  _supposed_  to hurt. It’s supposed to be difficult. That’s what makes it worth the effort in the end.

Dean knocks his head softly against the wall. “I’m in love with – ”

His voice catches. He swallows. Shakes his head.

 _Just feel it,_ he prods himself.  _Come on, just once. Then you can go back to repressing it all you want._

He’s been getting on Sam’s ass about “honesty” all day – the least he can do is be honest with  _himself_ , after this whirlwind of a year.

Dean sighs. He trails a finger down the ridged spine of the grimoire to steady himself. His leg throbs with painful numbness from the cold. It’s dark and quiet behind his eyelids.

His heart beats a little faster. He’s sitting here alone, no one around to witness this strange exchange that Dean’s having with himself, and still his heart rate spikes like he’s being watched. Evaluated, judged. But it’s sort of thrilling, too. Even in just his own company, he feels a change. It’s not unpleasant.

And Dean doesn’t know it, but there is actually a tiny smile on his face right now, despite everything.

“I’m in love with Cas.”

 

Sam mopes around when he eventually reemerges from his room, and Dean knows instinctively that he hasn’t slept yet. His hair’s too neat, the circles under his eyes are too dark. He rubs at them anyway, either out of exhaustion or out of a need to keep up the illusion in front of his mother-henning brother.

“You actually going to eat the pancakes I make this morning?” Dean asks him, maybe a tad bitchier than he really needs to be.

Sam pinches his lips together. “Yes, please,” he says, which takes Dean by surprise. He hadn’t been planning on making anything but cereal this morning, honestly. But he takes the mix down from the cabinet above his head anyway with a dazed sort of detachment, robotically reaching for his cast iron and the mixing bowl still left out to dry on the counter a few feet away.

“Dean,” Sam says, just as Dean finishes retrieving the milk from the fridge.

“Yeah,” he replies, keeping his back turned.

“Um.” He can hear Sam sigh. “I just want to say… you know. Thanks. For being the strong one, right now.”

Dean tsks, whisking his pancake batter in the bowl with a fork. It’s a bit too watery. “Come on, Sam.”

“No, I mean it,” Sam objects. “I really thought about it, and you’re right. Sitting here worrying isn’t productive. I can’t promise I’ll be, like, a joy to be around, but I’m trying to get my head more in the game.”

Dean purses his lips.

“Ok?”

Dean nods. “Ok. Thanks, Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“You want syrup, too?”

“Yeah.”

Dean moves to grab the syrup – real Canadian stuff, none of the Aunt Jemima sugar that he grew up on – from their pantry, hobbling a little as he goes. He puts on a brave face through the pain, but he knows that Sam can see right through his act. He catches a glimpse at his brother’s expression at the table as he turns back to the stove.

“How are  _you_ feeling?” Sam asks. He plants both hands flat on the table, like he’s about to get up. “Do you need – ”

“I’m fine,” Dean assures him. “Little sore, but it’s bearable.”

Sam’s hands slide back into his lap. “Ok. If you say so.”

Dean throws him a smile for good measure and starts spooning the pancake batter into the skillet. It settles with a sizzle.

“You were, like.” Sam laughs. “You really  _were_  full on [twitterpated](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DWadHPTfxrPc&t=MDliNGIzZTU0NGVmYjIyZjRjYWRlZmQ2ZGY5OTY3OWE2YTI1NzdhMix0SGpWdmxnaA%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F170802657533%2F1312-coda&m=1), dude.”

Dean laughs once, but it sounds fake even to his own ears. “Yeah,” he agrees, shaking his head. “Spells, man. What can you do?”

Sam kicks his feet up on the other side of the bench – Dean can hear it even though his back is turned. 

“I didn’t know it was a spell at first,” Sam admits. “I thought you had just come to some sort of epiphany in the car.”

Dean’s hand shakes a little as he flips the first pancake. Raw batter splatters up against the sides of the pan. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, as casually and as conversationally as he can manage. His mouth keeps moving before he can stop it. “And just who am I supposed to be having an epiphany about?”

Sam, blessedly, stays quiet in his judgmental sort of way. Dean doesn’t interrogate him further. He serves up a short stack and ignores the look that Sam gives him.

 _It would be nice,_  he thinks again to himself,  _to live as honestly as I wish other people would._

They tuck into their pancakes across from each other, not speaking but bickering in gestures over the butter and syrup. Sam even gets a playful smile on his face at one point as he smacks Dean’s hand away from his plate, cheeks stuffed with comfort food, and Dean’s mood lifts a little.

Sam ultimately stands first, taking his sticky, empty plate to the sink, and nods resolutely to himself. He’s formulating a new plan after feeling sorry for himself for so long, and Dean’s optimistic about the day ahead.

But he wants to know one thing, first.

“Were you happy for me?” he blurts, just before Sam exits the kitchen completely.

Sam takes a few steps backward, frowning, but Dean refuses to look up from his plate. “Huh?”

Dean swallows and pushes his next bite through pooled and cooling syrup. 

“When you thought it was for real,” he clarifies, speaking slowly, “Were you happy for me.”

Sam stays quiet only long enough to smile, slow and real. 

“Yeah. Of course, Dean.”

Dean nods, Sam taps the doorframe, and then they both go to their separate corners.


	14. 13.13 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between 13.13 and 13.14. For no particular reason, here’s a Destiel fried chicken dinner date.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/171421905648/1313-coda)

He finishes putting his gun back together only to start taking it apart again.

The pieces move and click in his hands with a rhythm as sure and familiar as a Zeppelin song. The slide comes apart, the barrel pops out onto the table, he instinctively runs a rag along all the inner ridges a second time. A third. A fourth.

He doesn’t look across the table at Cas. He can feel the proximity of Castiel’s shoe next to his own under the table; it would be easy for him to shift and press their feet together, but something stops him. He keeps his eyes down and takes apart his gun over and over and over, gritting his teeth.

_How could I not know_ , he berates himself.  _How._

Castiel sighs, and for a moment Dean panics that he’s heard his self-punishing inner monologue. Castiel pushes his chair away from the table and stands, but he doesn’t say anything. Before he turns, he reaches out and taps Dean on the hand, just once, like one of their customary pats on the shoulder only much softer, and the gun pieces stop moving in Dean’s grip. The moment is so quick and casual that Dean feels a little ridiculous for fixating on it.

Castiel turns and walks through the door, leaving the rest of them behind. Dean watches him go and chews the inside of his cheek. Sam, blessedly, doesn’t appear to notice.

He tips his head down and returns to his task. Cas will come back.

Probably.

“For the love of God!” Donatello thunders, slapping his hands flat on the table. 

Sam startles. Dean regards him with raised eyebrows. 

“Will you  _shut up_  with that? Ticktickticktick all in my ears! I can’t think!” he shouts, glaring accusingly in Dean’s direction.

Dean puts down his gun. He wipes his hands on his dirty piece of rag cloth.

He pushes his chair away from the table and stands. Donatello actually sighs in relief.

He finds Castiel in the kitchen.

He’s leaning up against the sink, facing the door like a Bond villain who’s Been Expecting You. Maybe it’s strategic positioning, maybe he really was just waiting there like that. He has a glass of water in his hand.

“I had him,” Castiel murmurs. His voice still carries, and Dean knows he is meant to hear. “I really thought I had him, and he just. didn’t. die.”

Dean purses his lips as he approaches. “Not your fault, Cas.”

Castiel ticks his head and sips from his water glass. He swishes the water around in his mouth a little and then turns his head to spit into the sink.

“Seriously,” Dean persists. He keeps his voice low, even though it’s just the two of them. “You did what you could. I’m – we’re thrilled that you just got away.”

Castiel shakes his head. He sets his glass of water on the counter behind him. He doesn’t look Dean in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have just ripped out the remainder of his grace while I had the chance. But I wasn’t thinking, I was so angry and I wanted – ”

“You wanted to kill him,” Dean fills in. “Sure. We all do, buddy. Can’t fault you that.”

They’re standing toe to toe. Castiel still looks so miserable. Dean reaches out and taps their feet together.

“I failed,” Castiel persists. “And every second that Jack and your mother spend across the rift – ”

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t, ok? Don’t do this. Don’t think yourself into a pit, man. You don’t need the guilt.”

Castiel finally lifts his head. One of his eyebrows perfectly arches upwards, and there’s just maybe a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Maybe you should take your own advice.”

Dean can feel himself flush, feel his hackles raise. “That’s different.”

“Hm,” Castiel says, which sounds about as skeptical as one syllable is capable of being. He pushes himself off the sink and closer into Dean’s space.

“It  _is_ ,” Dean insists. “It is, because it’s – ”

“It’s me, I know,” Castiel fills in. “You should have known because it’s me.”

“Yeah,” Dean finishes lamely.

Castiel shakes his head, smiling at the ground. At their feet beneath them.

Dean swallows. “What if something had – ”

“Happened to me? It didn’t.”

“Well, it could have. And I wouldn’t have known.”

“Hypotheticals,” Castiel dismisses. “‘You don’t need the guilt.’”

Dean rolls his eyes. He reaches out and quickly draws Castiel close, presses him up against his chest. Castiel goes, pliant in Dean’s grip. He tucks their temples together to match their feet.

“You’re not happy,” Dean voices.

Castiel sags a little. “No. I’m not.” One broad hand sweeps up Dean’s side to rest along his back as he says this.

“Well,” Castiel amends, sighing against Dean’s skin. Warmth radiates out from his palm, not grace but just the pulsing and Alive heat from his body, through the armor of Dean’s jacket right to the core of him. “Only in some respects.”

Dean huffs. “Sap.” 

He quickly kisses Castiel’s head and then rears back from their hug, putting distance between them once more, and nods. Castiel’s hand falls away from his body and Dean misses it already. 

“Haven’t had a chance to say it yet, but it’s good having you back, Cas.”

Castiel frowns. “You just said that you didn’t even know I’d been captured.”

Dean matches Castiel’s frown with one of his one. “Yeah, but you weren’t  _here_ either way.”

This reply seems to be the right one, because Castiel’s face melts into that tender, affectionate thing that Dean so treasures. Castiel reaches between them to quickly squeeze Dean’s hand. They smile at each other and Castiel lets go. The moment passes. But the feeling lingers.

“Uh? Guys?” Sam calls from the library, fear rising in his voice. “Donatello ran out of wings.”

Dean hisses. “Better go make a run. You coming?”

Castiel nods, squinting. “This is one mission I believe I can handle.”

Dean quirks half a smirk. “Awesome. Meet you in the car.”

They part. And they then come back together.

Such is the way of things.

 

Donatello has such specific instructions for chicken wings that Castiel seems to physically deflate under the weight of his previous confidence.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” he mutters, glancing between the yellow notepad with his order written out and the menu board at the front of the restaurant. He restlessly taps his fingers along the cardboard backing of the pad.

Dean snorts, hands in his pockets as they wait in line at the counter. The restaurant is crowded on an evening like this and Dean presses close to Castiel not entirely out of necessity, shoulder almost digging into his chest as he leads the pair of them. They’re comfortable in each other’s space. “Pretty sure he’ll eat whatever we put in front of him,” he returns.

Castiel smiles a little, tracing over Donatello’s handwriting again with his eyes. “At least he didn’t write down his order in glyphs. Then we’d really be in trouble.”

Dean laughs into a smile of his own, shuffling forward as the person in front of them takes a step. “You want anything?” Dean asks him, half-turning to meet his eyes.

Castiel shakes his head. “Not now, thank you.”

“You were thirsty earlier.”

“I still had the taste of blood in my mouth. It was distracting.”

Dean nods. “Ah.” 

One of the people lingering at a nearby trashcan regards them with an odd look. Dean picks at his thumbnail and tries to remain inconspicuous. 

He really wants to talk about their new plan, get Castiel’s honest opinion without potentially diminishing Sam’s renewed enthusiasm, but it generally isn’t a good idea to talk about work in the waking world. Not on a night like this.

“Hear anything good on the radio lately?” Dean chooses to ask instead, nudging his shoulder back into Castiel’s body to get his attention.

Castiel furrows his brow. “It’s quiet for now. I think the angels are keeping to themselves. They’re very afraid.”

Dean blinks. “Well, that’s useful, but I was asking about the actual radio, Cas.”

Castiel blinks. “Oh.”

Dean shakes his head.

“Dean, I’ve been imprisoned for weeks, how am I supposed to know what’s currently playing on the radio?”

“Hi,” Dean says, finding himself suddenly face-to-face with an innocent-looking cashier. He flashes her a smile and tugs Castiel forward by his coat, effectively cutting off his pissy remark.

The cashier doesn’t seem to notice. “Hi, what can I get you?” she asks, brightly and personably. Dean likes her.

“We have kind of a large order for you,” he apologizes. “Go ahead, Cas.”

At the ready, Castiel leans over Dean’s shoulder and reads dutifully off his notepad: a party order of fifty wings with a mixture of lemon pepper, Asian style, buffalo, and spicy garlic all in frighteningly specific combinations. “Yes,  _thirteen_ of the buffalo, please,” Castiel sighs when the cashier asks him to repeat himself. He steps back behind Dean looking a little worse for wear.

“Will that be all?” she asks, slightly frazzled.

“And three orders of  _wedges_ , not fries,” Dean instructs.

“Mayonnaise,” Castiel pipes up behind him.

“Right, and can you – mayo? Seriously?”

Castiel nods helplessly, looking wildly out of his depth. “He likes to dip.”

Dean sighs. “Ok, and could you throw a few packets of mayonnaise into the bag, please?” Dean asks the cashier. She nods, reaching under the counter. “Sheesh.”

“I was also instructed to get – ”

“Ranch, yeah, I know. It comes with the order.”

The cashier poorly hides a smile under her uniform cap. “Ok, so that’ll be one party platter with twenty lemon pepper, ten Asian style,  _thirteen_  buffalo, and seven spicy garlic wings with ranch dipping sauce, three orders of potato wedges, a large Dr. Pepper, and some mayo in the bag. Can I get anything else for you gentlemen today?”

Dean peeks sidelong at Castiel. “Two double cheeseburgers for the road. Medium.”

Castiel shakes his head, but Dean can see the smile playing on his face anyway. 

“You got it,” their cashier says. She tells them their total, but Dean barely even hears her. He hands over a credit card and takes their receipt: order number 131. She shoves several packets of mayonnaise in Dean’s direction as he leaves the counter, which he clumsily fists in both hands.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Castiel says, as they drift over to the waiting area.

“They make you happy,” Dean replies, and that’s the end of that conversation. He dumps the extra mayonnaise packets into Castiel’s coat pockets, to which he receives no protest, only a little upwards glance of annoyance.

They wait together for their food by the soda machine. Dean reaches up and tames a couple of errant hairs in Castiel’s now signature coiffure, and Castiel returns the gesture by hesitantly tucking the tag of Dean’s jacket back under his collar, fingers skittering along the base of his neck. 

“I see you do this for Sam all the time, but I don’t really understand it,” he remarks.

Dean shrugs. “Just looks sloppy. It bugs me.”

“Mhm,” Castiel says, in that  _I don’t understand but I don’t care enough to parse it out with you_ tone of his. “I think you look fine regardless.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his face feels a bit hot. It’s a bit hot in here in general, actually. Heat from the fryers. He plucks at his collar and blows out a deep breath.

It’s only once they’ve carried their enormous bags of food back to the Impala and dug around inside – “Ha! Victory,” Dean had proclaimed, passing one lone wrapped burger off to Castiel in the passenger seat – that Castiel looks over and says, “Please don’t misunderstand. I’m very glad to be home.”

Dean pauses, thumb stuck under the tape of his own burger parcel, grease rolling from one corner of the parchment down the side of his hand. He just lets it. “Of course you are.”

“No, I mean,” Castiel says, slowly turning his burger around in his hands. “I missed you. That’s what I meant.”

Dean lowers his burger. The bag of chicken wings, tucked between Castiel’s feet, wafts heat and spice in his direction and he finds it difficult to swallow all of a sudden. 

“ _You_  make me happy,” Castiel adds.

Dean clears his throat. “I missed you too,” he says.

Feeling better understood, Castiel raises his burger to his mouth too casually and takes a large bite. He chews, a tiny groan of contentment rising from in his chest, and thankfully keeps his eyes averted out the window so Dean can safely tuck into his own burger without the weight of eyes on him.

He can still see Castiel’s cheek raise in a poor attempt to hide a smile out of the corner of his eye. “Is this a date?” he asks.

Dean chokes. “No.”

“Alright.”

Dean takes too big a bite of his burger and wipes his hand on his jeans, wriggling in his seat. Castiel reaches out and takes Dean’s food for him, holding it carefully by the parchment bunched around the bottom half while Dean sticks the keys into the ignition. He continues holding onto it as Dean pulls out of the parking lot, and then hands it back to him once they’re successfully on the road.

He feels like he’s screaming it with every inch the Impala rolls closer to home.  _I love you._

The thing is, he thinks Castiel might have caught on by now. That he might be feeling it, might hear the unspoken words in everything Dean does since he got back, because he’s broadcasting his own reply right back to him:  _I know_.

And that’s all that matters, really. Screw everything else.


	15. 13.14 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/171444369903/1314-coda)

In hindsight, it seems obvious. But then, most big things usually do. Never noticed until impossible to ignore.

“How are you holding up, Cas?” he had asked.

“I’m fine,” Castiel replied.

And Dean hadn’t believed him. At least he can say that his instincts are still intact. “I just mean, with everything you’ve been through. I know you really want to find Lucifer.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s – well, it is that,” Castiel admitted. “But it’s also… Dean, I was dead.”

“Temporarily,” Dean allowed.

“And I have to believe that I was brought back for a reason.”

“You were,” Dean insisted, feeling his heart throb in its cage. “Kay? Jack brought you back because we needed you back.”

_I need you._ He’s said it so many times by now that it was just easy to remind him again.

But Castiel’s shoulders had sagged. Dean barely noted it at the time, but – 

“Right,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. Weary, if anything.

“And how have I repaid him?” Castiel asked, suddenly narrowing his eyes. “I promised his mother that I would protect him, but now he’s trapped in  _that place_  while Lucifer is here, who’s – ”

He even paused to laugh.

“I mean, he’s getting stronger, more powerful by the day. And if Michael really is coming… maybe I was brought back to help prepare,” Castiel mused.

Dean had frowned. “Prepare for what?”

“War,” Castiel told him simply. Gravely. “War is what Michael does.”

Dean shrugged it off. “Well, then we do what we do. Whatever it takes.”

And he slapped Castiel on the shoulder, set off on their mission, and didn’t look back. He’s made it a habit of his to never look back.

He’s paying for that now.

 

These doors are thin.

Dean has learned this lesson in a few unfortunate ways over the past few years, but perhaps the  _most_  unfortunate way to be reminded of the bunker’s one structural flaw is to hear Castiel’s desperate confession in the interrogation room while he’s trapped on the outside.

“What are you going to do?” he hears Donatello ask.

“I am going to do something that I promised I would never do to a human being without their permission. I’m going to strip the spell from your mind.”

Sam turns to his brother, hands trembling. “Can he really do that?” he asks, in nearly a whisper.

Dean shrugs, helplessly.

“You – you – you can’t,” he hears Donatello protest, echoing Sam. “I’ve absorbed too much power, you’ll fry us both!”

“I might,” he then hears Castiel admit.

That spurs Dean into action more than anything, and he frantically jiggles the doorknob, slamming the whole of his body weight against the door. He just took down two mythical God-creatures not two hours ago, but he’s going to be beaten by a door so thin he can hear a conversation through it? Irony at its worst.

“I’m sorry. But I’m not going to let you or anyone hurt the people I love,” Castiel swears, with real anger in his voice. “Not again.”

Dean’s hand goes lax around the handle just as he hears Donatello start to scream. He takes a step back, away from the door.

Sam looks at him with wide, unhappy eyes, and Dean doesn’t know what to say. If he were to just say what he’s thinking,  _it’s my fault_  would be his only option. 

_He wouldn’t be this pissed off if it wasn’t me that got hurt._

“The people I love,” he had said. It lands like an accusation.

Big changes, ones that really matter, are sometimes whiplash quick, sometimes molasses slow. And when they are slow, they come so slowly that they’re hard to notice, but easy to take for granted. That’s how Dean feels now, as Castiel steps through that damnably thin door with guilt in his eyes - like he’s taken too much for granted.

Castiel has just broken a sacred vow that he made to himself, a moral code that he lives and holds dear, but at least: “Well, I know what we have to do.”

_That’s the price of going to war,_  Dean thinks, watching the hard line of Castiel’s shoulders move away from him.

Castiel was made for war. For millennia his purpose amounted to righteous, ruthless wrath and cold efficiency. And in the span of a few years on Earth, he learned to love. He learned to privilege other things, and is no longer suited for this job that he was crafted for.

“I did what soldiers do,” Castiel insists.

_And it isn’t what you want,_ Dean doesn’t say. _It isn’t you._

_I don’t think it ever was._

Dean only knows a fraction of what Castiel went through upstairs with Naomi – there are some details that he cannot and will not disclose even after all this time, nor would Dean ever push him for them – but he knows that she was practiced. And he knows Castiel. It didn’t take very long at all for Castiel to decide to turn, to feel.

_Angels are warriors of God, and I’m a soldier_ , Castiel told him once, and even then it sounded more like a sales pitch. There is no doubt that Castiel is good at his job, but it has always gone against his instincts to be ungentle. To be a square peg forced into a round hole is painful. He has to be pushed to reach a breaking point.

And Dean, this time, is the one doing the pushing. He doesn’t want to be, but he is.

_I’m doing this for you, Dean. I’m doing this because of you._

“This is the only way we win,” Castiel tells him. Not Sam, Dean. “And this is the only way we survive.” Self-usurped, lost to his own essence, but all in the good service of his need.

Dean notes the hard edge to Castiel’s eyes, but he doesn’t let it fool him or scare him off. The fear lurking beneath the surface is the same here as it was when Castiel was prone on his back under men without hearts. Castiel is not of their kind.

“It’s like you said, Dean,” he parrots, and Dean’s heart breaks a little. “Whatever it takes.”

_What have I done_ , he thinks.  _What have I made you into. What curse is my love that you should be driven to this over and over again._

The promise that he made on the stairs still applies. His heart, much like the angel’s, cannot change. He will stand by Castiel even in war.

But he will not forget the lesson of this moment again, as he has so many times before. That knife’s edge that they’ve set up permanent residence on – it’s teetering again. Dean has seen it happen before.

Perhaps they hold too tightly to one another, but what else – really – is there for them to do? What other options do they have, as soft and as needy creatures as they really are, the two of them? Like Sam’s, like Dean’s, Castiel’s love knows no limits. He will do  _whatever it takes_ in its name, no matter what he stands to lose. Even if it’s himself.

Maybe for the first time, Dean lets himself see how bad of a thing that really is.

It hurts, to watch an angel fall. It hurts even worse to watch him pick himself up.


	16. 13.15 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/171708045338/1315-coda)

“Are you worried?” Father Camilleri asks him in the passenger seat of the Impala.

“You’re not?” Dean retorts.

“I – ” the Father begins. “God will see us through,” he settles on.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, he really won’t.”

Father Camilleri peers at him, too patient. “You’re not a believer.”

“Oh, I believe,” Dean retorts. “Hell, I  _know_. God? He doesn’t give a damn about you, or me, or anyone else. So if you’re expecting some sort of miracle to happen, well. Good luck.”

Father Camilleri hesitates, but he doesn’t look upset. He doesn’t look patronizingly superior either, the way that many of the faithful do when Dean attempts to break them down. Instead, Father Camilleri says, “I’m sorry.”

He continues. “I didn’t mean that God would reach down and protect us. Of course that’s not going to happen.

“But I believe that all good things are God’s things. And what your brother’s doing, it’s a good thing.”

Dean doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he falls back on familiar combativeness. He is really stubbornly trying to dislike this guy. “Yeah, or a stupid thing.”

Father Camilleri smiles. “Or both. Many times they can be the same.”

Dean makes a note of this, and then he goes back to work.

 

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

Castiel sighs on the other end of the line. The sound crackles through like white noise and interference, and Dean suddenly remembers that all angels are wavelengths. He feels closer, somehow. Like the sound coming out the bottom of Dean’s cellphone could really be Castiel’s breath, or at least a small part of him traveling through soundwaves.

“About what,” Castiel asks, dry and worn down.

Dean twitches his nose. “Well, if you’re too busy or something – ”

“I’m just a little… stressed,” Castiel replies.

Dean hums. The last update he’d gotten on Syria came from Sam’s iPad, and Sam had made such a face at the headline that Dean hadn’t even bothered to look over his shoulder. “I’ll bet.”

He can practically hear the way that Castiel rubs at his forehead. “Anyway. You were thinking.”

“Oh, right.” Dean stretches his legs out onto the map table and leans back into his chair, tilting back a little. Despite his earlier promises, he’s back to eating cold Papa Giovanni’s. It actually doesn’t taste that bad. “The Most Holy Man told me some stuff today.”

“Most holy stuff?”

“You – ” Dean shakes his head and pops the last bit of a piece of crust into his mouth. “You’re an ass.”

“It was an honest question.”

“Uh huh. Well, he said something about how stupid things and good things are the same sometimes.”

Castiel doesn’t have anything to say in return. There’s just more static over the phone line, though Dean waits.

“Cas,” he says at last, finally swallowing his mouthful of pizza. “I get on you a lot for doing stupid things.”

Castiel makes a noise, but Dean persists. “So, I don’t know. I guess I just want to say thank you.”

“Thank you for being stupid,” Castiel clarifies.

Dean smiles. The pizza sticks in his throat a little, gummy and lukewarm. He coughs. “Yeah. Means you care, right?”

Castiel sighs again, and Dean has it in him to laugh a little. “I should go now,” Castiel says. “But… you’re welcome, I guess.”

Dean reaches for another slice of pizza. “That’s the spirit.”

The line clicks off.

Dean ticks his head and stuffs half the next slice into his mouth at once, humming a little as he chews.

 

Sam announces his presence with a, “Hey. There any of that left?” He points to the box at Dean’s feet.

Dean just slides it his way in response. “Just talked to Cas,” he adds.

Sam’s eyebrows raise as he picks a slice of pepperoni off his pizza. He tosses it back into the box with a sad-sounding  _thwap._ “Oh yeah?”

“Dude,” Dean admonishes, staring. “Each pepperoni you throw away costs me, like, 25 cents.”

Sam makes a face at him and pops the next one directly into his mouth. “He find the tree of life yet?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. But he will.”

Sam smirks, the bastard. “Lemme guess: you have faith?”

“Shut up.”

Sam chuckles. “Well. Think I’m gonna get some shut eye.”

“Good, you need it.”

Sam shakes his head, looking out into space and frowning as he chews. “Think I’m hitting a wall with the Solomon stuff. Could you maybe look over my notes tomorrow and see if I missed anything?”

Dean nods and kicks his feet off the table. “Yeah, sure. Not that you haven’t already been over them with a fine-tooth comb.”

Sam rolls his eyes and snags one more slice of pizza from the nearly empty box. He raises it in solidarity and parts with a, “Night.”

Dean sends a wave after him. It’s only when he gets up from his chair himself that he realizes he’s still clutching his phone. 

He turns it over in his hand a few times and thumbs at the screen.

“Hm,” he says, to no one at all.

He slides it into his back pocket and reaches out to close the top of the pizza box. There’s nothing in there but Sam’s discarded pepperoni and an extra thin piece, so Dean snags it and piles the on the extra toppings. His stomach is already protesting, insistent heart burn flaring up in his chest, but he can’t let food go to waste and forces it down his gullet anyway.

“God, I’m getting old,” he grumbles, taking a deep breath through his next bite.

When he’s muscled the last of the pizza down, he walks the empty box into the kitchen and folds it into the trash. He flicks out the lights behind him and grabs his jacket from the coat hook by the door, taking the Impala’s keys from the pocket.

 

It usually takes about twenty minutes to drive to Smith County Memorial Hospital, but it takes Dean around thirty. He actually stops at every red light and waits for them to change, even though nobody’s on the road this time of night. He takes 36 down to Main, past the Dollar General, and parks in the visitor lot, always open despite the late hour. He swirls his keys around his finger as he walks, head down against a light smattering of rain.

Nobody pays him much attention as he snakes through the halls, slipping in with the flow of traffic easily and silently. He makes his way to the right room and braces himself, daring to poke his head inside.

The prophet Donatello lays exactly where he and Sam left him a week ago: still and in bed, hooked up to a breathing apparatus and a heart monitor. The drab blue blanket the hospital has provided has been pulled halfway up his chest, bunched around his sides. 

If he’s still thinking about holy relics, this might be the saddest example of one that Dean’s ever seen.

He approaches slowly. Once he gets to the bedside, Dean presses a hand to his chest. Heart burn.

“Hey, Donny,” he greets. 

Donatello doesn’t respond. The machines keeping him alive don’t respond either.

Dean sighs. He looks at the heart monitor, beeping sluggishly along, looks at the pale and frizzed-out mop of gray hair fanned out against the pillow. He shakes his head.

“Stupid,” he declares.

What a stupid thing.

 

He stands in the hospital room for as long as he can, listening to the beeping and the white noise in his head. 

He’s still wildly pissed off at Castiel for this. It’s been leaking into everything lately, that frustration. So he just lets himself be angry for a minute, reminds himself that he’s justified in that. Castiel’s recklessness turned a prophet of the lord into a vegetable. A corrupted, soulless prophet, but a man nonetheless. Jesus. First Kevin and now this. Burned out from the inside.

Dean knows that this was and continues to be a no-win situation for them, but he also knows deep down, just like he knew about the hotel room tonight, that they could have done  _something_. And still he has to be weirdly grateful for Castiel’s intervention at all, because now they have the spell and he’s still alive and his brother is still alive, and Donatello –

He takes a deep breath. For a moment, he lets himself cover Donatello’s spotted hand with his own. The very hand that sent dark magic clogging down Dean’s throat, and that would have wrung his neck himself if it hadn’t been cuffed down.

Castiel saved them. At a cost, but. Hell. He did it out of love. Out of necessity. And maybe it isn’t fair, but it’s done.

Stupid things. Good things. Who knows.

He told Sam that very morning,  _Look, this isn’t a perfect world we’re trying to save, ok? And if I’m not perfect trying to save it, then so be it. Come on, you with me or not?_ And now he has to eat his words. He’s got to decide right now if he really means them.

Not perfect, none of them. But good? Maybe. Trying to be, anyway. Stupid and good. Love does that to people, probably.

Dean forgave Castiel the minute he stepped into the hospital, right or wrong, and at least now he knows it.

He takes his phone out of his back pocket as he walks back to the Impala, thumbing the lock open as he passes under a flickering street light. This might go through or it might not - you never know with those angelic waves - but Dean feels it’s important to say anyway. He texts Castiel a short message and then slides back behind the wheel, wringing his hands. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat.

The screen lights back up almost immediately.

He nods to himself and starts the long drive back home, faithful.


	17. 13.16 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/172433566648/1316-coda)

Sam catches up with Castiel on the sidewalk fairly quickly. He bumps their shoulders together as the cop cars pull away with their lights flashing, crowding him a little as they walk. 

“How long do you think it’s going to take for Dean to stop talking about Scooby Doo?” he murmurs, bending down.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “If this is anything like the time with Hitler, we’ll be hearing about it for the next eight months.”

Sam groans softly. Dean’s loud protests ring out behind them as he rushes to catch up.

The two of them reach the Impala before he does. Castiel tries the backseat, but the car is predictably locked. Castiel’s eyes roll skyward with his whole body as if this is the greatest inconvenience in the world.

“Here,” Sam says, slapping a large palm down on Castiel’s shoulder. “You take shotgun.”

He eases Castiel over and easily slides into the space he once occupied, waiting towards the back. Castiel frowns at him, but goes where he’s led. “Why?” he asks anyway.

Sam shrugs, smiling. “We haven’t seen you since you left for Syria, man. I think Dean will want to have you close for a while.”

Castiel squints. “Right.”

“Hey,” Dean wheezes, finally jogging into the picture. “What are you waiting around for?”

“It’s  _locked_ ,” Castiel icily informs him.

“Alright, alright,” Dean huffs, fishing the keys out of his pocket. “Keep your trench coat on.”

“Are you  _winded_?” Sam asks incredulously.

Dean makes a face, finally unearthing the keys. “You know what, Sam? Eat me.”

Sam pulls open the backseat door and clambers in while Dean rounds the hood. Castiel remains where he is, waiting for his cue.

All three of the Impala’s doors slam shut in sync: the driver, the passenger, the backseat. Dean chuckles to himself as he settles into position.

“Actually? Nah. Even your bitchy attitude can’t ruin this night for me, Sammy,” he announces. Sam grimaces at him. 

“Man,” Dean continues, shaking his head. “Just…” he whistles, long and low as he turns the key in the ignition. Castiel impassively buckles his seatbelt.

“Nothing is ever going to top this, guys. Nothing.”

In the backseat, Sam rolls his eyes. He’s already got his phone in his hands and is working on untangling a pair of headphones, evidently planning on ignoring Dean and all of his gushing on the ride back to the bunker. Castiel still catches the mirth in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

He  _also_  catches the way that Dean’s smile dips for a second in the silence, the way he hesitates before changing gears. His hand jerks from the steering wheel to his neck before he aborts the movement entirely, halfway and awkward, and returns his hand to the wheel. Only then does he reach down for the gear shift and put the Impala into reverse.

“Right,” he says to himself.

Castiel narrows his eyes in suspicion.

 

Dean guides the Impala away from the pawn shop’s curb, and Castiel realizes that he still has the charred pocketknife in his coat. He takes the piece out carefully, turns it around in his hand a few times, and scratches his thumbnail along the side. A bit of ash flakes off into his lap and he doesn’t brush it away. 

“Feels shitty to just chuck something like that, right?” Dean asks softly from the driver’s seat.

Castiel nods. He scrapes off a little more ash with his nail. There are initials carved into the butt of the knife, nearly illegible now, just clumsy scars and letters. A ‘t’ maybe. An ‘r.’

“What do we do with it?” Castiel asks him.

Dean shrugs and gives a yawn in response. “Put it with the others, I guess,” he says, grunting as he repositions himself in his seat a little. The Impala bumps as the front left tire dips into a pothole. “We got a lockbox back in the bunker for lost stuff. Or we could bury it.”

Castiel nods. He slides the knife back into the pocket of his coat. “I like that plan.”

Dean nods. His eyelids are only at half-mast after the day they’ve all had, but he quirks an easy smile. “Better than soap and coconuts, anyway.”

With a fond hum in agreement, Castiel turns in his seat to look over his shoulder. Sam is leaned against the door with his feet propped up along the bench seat. His head is turned, but Castiel can see that he has headphones in and is busily tapping away on his phone. The blue of the screen lights up the sharp angles of his face like a television set.

“At the end, there. The child,” Castiel broaches, as he turns back around. “That got to you.”

Dean doesn’t bother denying it. There’s no reason to try; he’d felt the prickle of tears on his lower lashline as clearly as Castiel must have seen them, and Sam’s not even listening hard enough to judge him.

“Kids,” he says, as if that’s the end of it.

“No,” Castiel insists. “ _This_  kid. This show. Something’s bothering you.”

Dean takes a breath. He drifts into the left lane without turning on his blinker. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel and glances, out of habit, in every mirror. He swallows.

“I was telling Sam,” Dean starts out, with his voice low and his eyes bashfully darting to and away from the side of Castiel’s face. “Growing up on the road, getting dragged around by Dad, I grew up with the Scooby gang. It was good times. And it made me feel a little better once I found out the truth too, you know? Braver.”

Castiel nods. “I can see the appeal,” he admits. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “They are quite diverting.”

“Right. Yeah. And, thanks, Cas, you know. For saving Shaggy and Scooby back there. That was really, uh. Something.”

Castiel only shrugs, but Dean clears his throat anyway. They don’t look at each other, just stare out the windshield at the open road without speaking for a moment.

“Point is… I don’t know. I got to be a kid again for a minute there,” Dean confesses.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes. Unhinging your jaw to eat eighteen-layer sandwiches, wearing nightgowns and ascots, chasing after your childhood crush – ”

“Look, what I have with Daphne Blake is  _special_  – ”

“You were living your dream. Doing all the things you wish you could do as a child.”

Dean pauses, and then sighs. “Yeah. Until it got real. And then, I don’t know.”

They come up to a stoplight, sluggishly blinking yellow in the tinged-blue dark. Dean slowly rolls the Impala to a stop, but he doesn’t pull past the painting line in the street. He keeps them here, idle at the intersection, for long enough that Castiel feels he should angle his body and turn to look. 

In the backseat, Sam removes an earbud out of curiosity before quickly putting it back and surreptitiously raising his phone back to eye level. Castiel, meanwhile, gives Dean his full attention.

Dean shrugs one tense shoulder with a blank face, playing down his own discomfort. He reaches up and loosens the knot around his neck. The orange ascot cloth slips between his fingers as he speaks, satin and slick. “Just got a solid reminder that I’m not a kid anymore, I guess. That I never really was.”

Castiel clenches his teeth and curls his hands into fists against his thighs.

Dean quirks another half a smile. It’s not a happy one. He wrings the ascot lightly between his hands, exposed throat now bared to the chill with his flannel unbuttoned. “Thought I’d grow up to be Fred, but I think I actually turned out to be Fred’s worst nightmare.” He laughs once, self-conscious and bitter. “Think maybe that’s why he got on my nerves at first.”

A frown deepens along Castiel’s face as Dean bunches the ascot in the front pocket of his jeans. “Dean,” he interjects.

Dean ignores him with a quick wave of his hand. A corner of orange still peeks out from his pocket. A crease has formed between his eyebrows, his lips pulled down in concentration. “And the kid… he said he just wanted to see his dad again,” he muses, quietly enough that Sam won’t hear. “That’s all he wanted. With Mom gone – ”

Dean finally cuts himself off with a click, throat tight.

Castiel takes the knife out of his pocket again because it’s all he feels his hands are capable of at the moment. He flips it around a few times and blows a sharp breath out through his nose, squeezing tight around the blackened husk. He’s never really understood why fathers are so eager to pass down weapons to their sons.

“We’ll bury this,” Castiel decides. “We’ll treat it with gentleness.”

Dean scoffs, but he still doesn’t put his foot back on the gas. He avoids Castiel’s gaze.

“Look, it just brought some stuff up, is all. Most of the time, hell, that really  _was_ the coolest thing to ever happen to me. No lie.”

Castiel smiles. He nods as he says, “I feel like I’ve seen so much of  _you_  lately. First Tombstone, now Scooby Doo.”

Dean grins, and for real this time. “Oh, man. And you missed the Indiana Jones hunt. I Kate Capshaw’d the hell out of that one.”

Castiel smiles, still turning the pocket knife around in his hand. A relic of lost childhood. A gift from father to son, now lost to fire and grief.

“You have played the part of every one of your heroes,” Castiel says. “Lived out every fantasy of your youth.”

“Hm.”

Before Dean can have the chance to reply beyond that, Castiel flips the knife around and holds it out across the space between them. Dean looks down at it with a furrowed brow.

“So now,” Castiel says, inclining his head. “Maybe it’s time you realize that you can be your own hero.”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, then glances back down the knife. He takes it gingerly, reverently, with gentle hands. Their fingers brush together and linger, and Castiel doesn’t think it’s an accident. The lines in his face soften under the soft buttered glow of the stoplight.

“You don’t have to be Kurt Russell or Kate Capshaw or Fred Jones,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to – Dean, you are – you can just be – ”

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice thick. “Yeah, ok.”

Castiel nods. He settles back into his seat, facing forward to the road once more. The light blinks over them.

They sit and fidget and Castiel waits, with his hands curled into fists in his lap. He breathes. The three of them linger in the purring car. Dean’s father’s car. The night is still and three-dimensional around them.

“Dean?” Castiel inquires, after some time has passed and they still have not left.

Castiel hears him sigh. He hears him scrub the back of his hand along his eyes - maybe just tired, maybe choked up. It could be both. He takes a moment to collect himself.

“Hey, uh,” Dean says at last, twisting to face front in his seat again. He sniffs and wraps his free hand around the top of the steering wheel, the one not weighing the pocketknife in an open palm. “I got something to show you when we get home.”

Castiel relaxes a little, sinking back into his seat. “Oh?”

“Mm. I spruced up The Dean Cave a little. Sam wasn’t too impressed, but I’ve got a foosball table down there now.”

“I noticed that. Very nice.”

“Two chairs. Recliners. Right in front of the – well, where a  _new_  TV’s eventually gonna go.”

“That sounds good.”

Castiel can hear the smile in Dean’s voice when he asks, “I’m hoping you’ll be down for another movie night when I finally get it fixed up again.”

Castiel feels his own mouth start to turn up. “A classic, I presume.”

“Only the best,” Dean replies.

Castiel’s hands begin to uncurl. His teeth unclench. Another piece of Dean that he is willing to share, willing to show Castiel on his own terms, offered up on a silver platter. Enthusiastically, even. How could he say anything else?

“I am… down,” he promises.

Dean drops the pocketknife into the cup holder immediately to his right, so that it rests between their knees. He finally eases his foot onto the gas, in no hurry, and rolls through the intersection, leaving the stoplight and another mystery behind them. 

He reaches out, and instead of grabbing a ghost’s thigh, he grabs Castiel’s.

“Groovy.”


	18. 13.17 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/172701071603/1317-coda)

It reached not for an anchor, not for Solomon’s seal, no. In the moments before its inevitable doom, it reached for its mate.

When Ophelia Avila began the unholy chant that would to banish it back to where it came from, that tentacled god dragged Sandy – well, what was formerly Sandy anyway – back with it through the rift like it was nothing. It wasn’t an attempt to pull itself through to the promised land, but a desperate grab for the familiar, for the beloved and the dearly, deeply missed. It forced her back to a world that has been emptied, and she screamed. At the top of her borrowed lungs, the god trapped inside the fragile body of a human being wailed and cried until her being shook with it. Maybe she knew what she was going back to. Maybe she was aware of what she would lose. This world was a “delicious” one, ripe for their taking, and neither of them would ever see it again. Her hands flexed and splayed as the tentacles wrapped tighter around her body, fingers straining in the sleeves of their skin and muscle and like her very bones were trying to escape, tendons snapping in liberation.

From his position on that cold, flat altar, Dean could see Sandy’s eyes before the rip finally closed again. They were wet with tears, but wide with relief. Love has a way of undoing us all, even the gods.

The two of them were going home together, but they were also going home to starve. There’s nothing for them back there, on their side. Everything is here.

And Dean has always believed in a love that saves, but that just – how could one make the choice for the other? Damn the both of you because you just couldn’t bear to be alone? It seems like a fate worse than –

“We should wait for Cas,” Sam grumbles, dumping their ingredients into a bowl.

Dean’s hands itch. Sam’s not grinding the fruit into the mortar fast enough. He thinks about grabbing the pestle and finishing off the spell himself.

“It’ll be fine,” Dean promises, holding himself back.

Sam huffs and grits his teeth, but he knows better than to disagree with his brother when he’s got his heart set on something.

While Sam works on unraveling the very fabric of time and space, Dean eyes the empty spaces in the bunker. He imagines that preternatural glow cast from the rift blinding through their shelter, the only safe place any of them know, and projecting itself onto the books, the walls, the floors worn down by so many footprints. This is home. They are desanctifying it by doing this here, but there is nowhere else for them to go. Things come through the rift in both directions, and they need to be contained. The sheer amount of danger in this mission is not to be taken lightly, nor does Dean underestimate the severity of his decision to go this alone.

_I could go with you_.

Dean glances down at his watch, tick tick ticking away.

“Come on, Sam. Daylight’s – ”

“Burning, yeah, I know,” Sam snaps back.

Dean raps his knuckles on the table and nods. He tries to swallow the growing lump in his throat and fails spectacularly.

This is a risk none of them are really willing to take. But if they don’t do this now, while Castiel’s not around, there would be no stopping him. He’d throw himself into yet another celestial war zone where heis a valuable target. He’d kick and scream his way to certain death, all for Dean, always for Dean. Because Dean has to go, he has to do this for his mother and for his family and for himself, and he knows what Castiel would say if he were here. It’s what he always says when Dean gets ready to throw himself in the line of fire.

_I could go with you._

Dean chews the inside of his lip until he tastes blood and eyes up Ketch next, lurking at the other end of the table like a poltergeist. Like a shadowy question mark.

They can spare Ketch. Dean doesn’t care if Ketch dies across the rift.

Sam, though.  _Cas_.

There isn’t a chance in hell that he’s going to be the monster here.

He is not going to be the one to decide that they die for him.

Sam’s still taking his time, so Dean takes some initiative. He yanks a couple of hairs out from the back of his head and tosses them into their bowl. “Something that’s been there, right?”

Sam doesn’t look up. He dutifully stirs them into the mix, swirling them together with fruit juice and holy blood.

“Alright,” Sam announces, as the contents of the bowl starts to glow. He still doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he mumbles, “Remember: it’s only twenty-four hours.”

Dean looks down at his watch again. Syncs it up and sets a timer. Sam holds the seal over the bowl and begins his chant, and then they’re off.

And Dean, predictably, fights off the tears in his eyes.

 

The good thing about working with Ketch is that he’s sharp, catches on quick, and adapts. It’s what you do when you don’t have cumbersome things like a personality or attachments to slow you down, probably. 

The bad thing about working with Ketch is that he talks. And he also has a wealth of illegally-obtained information to use against Dean at absolutely any time he wants, no matter how inconvenient.

“Your pet angel will surely be cross about this,” Ketch observes, as they trek through ash-covered hills. “Will I have incurred his wrath as well, then? Shall I seek protection from  _him_ when this is over?”

Dean grimaces and spits, the hot dry air turning his tongue into sandpaper. “First off, you shut the fuck up about that. And B, if this world doesn’t waste you, then I sure as shit hope that Cas does.”

Ketch huffs, dragging his feet behind Dean. “Wonderful. Out of the frying pan…”

Dean, agitated, snaps. “Yeah, look. About that. Let’s get something straight, Ketch: I see right through you, ok?”

Ketch freezes for a second, which is interesting, but his tone is clipped and cold when he asks, “What do you mean?”

Dean’s lip curls, but he doesn’t turn around to face him. He doesn’t really want to see how Ketch’s face might change when he says, “You’re not just running from Asmodeus. You’re sweet on Mom.”

At Dean’s back, Ketch says nothing.

“You collapse under the weight of your tactical gear back there or what?” Dean calls back.

“Preparedness is next to godliness,” Ketch recites.

Dean runs a hand through his sweaty hair, scattering the ash that has collected there like newly fallen snow. “If you think I’m letting you within a hundred feet of her after what you did, you’re dead wrong.”

Again, no reply.

Dean nods. Silence is good. Silence is efficient. Better for the both of them.

But Ketch, like with most things, has to ruin it. His voice is quiet and deadly when it finally resurfaces, a mile or so deeper into charred and sparse forests.

“Perhaps it would be best if we simply refrained from judging one another’s hearts.”

Dean scoffs, genuinely amused. “Heart. Like you’ve got one.”

“If it bleeds, it bleeds,” Ketch quips. “Despite my very best efforts and though it pains me to admit it:I am still human. Just like you, Dean.”

Ketch’s hand comes up to grip Dean’s shoulder. Dean spins and knocks it off with a glare that means business, pressed nearly nose to nose and ready to throw down.

Ketch meets his eyes without a problem, with no hesitation. But for the first time, Dean sees a little bit of fear there. Maybe the same kind he saw in Sandy before she got pulled through space – fear of the end. The hopelessness of doom.

Ketch wants him to see it.

“And I still feel,” he admits.

They stand there, in this broken and deserted wasteland, assessing one another. Someone has to break first, and Dean swallows his pride to make sure that it’s him. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit.

Dean shakes his head as he turns back around, hitching his go bag higher up onto his shoulder. “Well, I hope you  _feel it_  when one of us finally stabs you through the chest,” he grumbles.

Ketch sighs and follows in Dean’s footsteps. “If your angel is one of mercy, he’ll make sure that I don’t.”

“He’s not really big on that, it turns out.”

“He’s shown  _you_  plenty over the years, despite your obvious shortcomings.”

Dean can’t help flashing a dirty smirk over his shoulder. “I’m the exception, buddy. Not the rule,” he explains.

Ketch rolls his eyes, and then they’re back to not talking again. Dean needs to conserve his energy anyway; he can’t be wasting his breath on this bastard who thinks he knows something about the human heart.

If he’s lucky, Dean will slither in through the backdoor of this nightmare, grab Mom and Jack, and then duck through the rift again before Cas even notices he’s gone. Bring home the win. Easy.

(But when has a Winchester ever been lucky, anyway?)

((And especially, that is, in love.))

 

The rift is still open, so there is a point of contact that still exists between his world and this one. The line, as it were, is still open. And though he tries to avoid praying so as to keep Castiel in the dark for as long as possible, Dean secretly hopes that the angel can hear him when he recalls those famous words uttered as a hostage in an inhospitable bind:

_I’m doing this for you. I’m doing this because of you._

_Don’t be too mad,_ he tacks on. Just in case.  _Please understand._

Being in Apocalypse world is kind of like being in Purgatory again, and it makes Dean a little sentimental.[ He rags on Castiel a lot for doing stupid things](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/171708045338/1315-coda), but he thinks he can understand that impulse a little better now that he’s thinking about it with a clear head (when he has time to think about things here other than survival, that is). This is exactly the kind of thing that Dean would be  _furious_ about if Castiel pulled it himself, so he gets it. He really would rather be stupid than selfish.

This is just the way they are, he supposes. He hopes that one day - if both of them can manage to survive long enough - they can get to a point where this stupid self-sacrificing doesn’t sting as freshly as it did the very first time. Because no matter how often they seem to fall into this pattern, it just doesn’t stop eating away at them. It’s only been a few hours, but Dean can already feel a weight settling down on his chest during his time apart from Castiel that he’s sure will stick around for the duration. He misses the easy trust and coordination of his brother in arms, he misses the playful conversation of his best friend, he misses the soft touches in stolen moments of his lover. Separation never gets easier.

In fact, it might just get even worse with time.

He doesn’t really blame “Sandy” for doing what she did. After a hundred years apart, he’d be tempted to kill, too.

They’ve done it before, after all. Kill for one another. Kill to find one another. Kill to bring the other one home.

Dean knows his limits well.

But every choice comes with a price, and missing Cas, missing home to go it alone, is his.


	19. 13.18 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/172889467458/1318-coda)

Once again, Dean leaves Sam and Castiel behind in the wake of his rashness.

They both helplessly watch him stomp away, gripping his shoulder so hard his knuckles turn white while the back of his neck turns red with anger. Sam flinches when he starts hearing faint crashes echo in the distance, but finds himself inexplicably rooted to the spot.

Searching for his bearings, he hesitantly turns to Castiel, who appears to be his only ally.

“Cas – ”

Every lamp that Dean hasn’t already broken suddenly explodes in a shower of sparks, the smell of fried circuits permeating the air. The map table slides across the floor and violently tips onto its side by the stairs.

Sam stumbles back, hands defensively raised to cover his eyes against the assault. He peeks through his fingers to watch what’s happening.

Castiel is  _fuming._

“Cas,” he repeats, weaker.

But Castiel only storms away in the other direction, mouth set in a hard line. He doesn’t even look Sam in the eye as he passes, coat flapping defiantly.

Sam watches him go, mouth opening and closing around too many words he simply cannot give voice to.

Everyone in the team has scattered across so much space.

Who is going to pick up the pieces? And where should he even begin?

 

Sam reads Dean the best out of everyone, and he knows when to leave his brother alone. He knows exactly when Dean’s being just pigheaded and self-pitying enough that anything Sam says will filter right through one ear and out the other, and at that point he’d just be doing more harm than good.

So he goes after Castiel first.

He doesn’t have to look very hard to find him; all Sam has to do is follow the dents in the bunker walls. They’re about the size of human fists. Sam swallows and hurries a little faster down the corridor.

Castiel is pacing in circles around Sam’s room, glaring at the Enochian still painted on the walls. He turns away from the door when he must hear Sam approach – with his chest heaving, breath stuttering out like sobs – and runs both his hands through his hair like Dean had not so long ago. He tugs hard as Sam skitters to a stop.

“That fucker,” he hears Castiel mutter. “That absolute – ”

He shakes his head and removes his hands from his hair. It’s impossible for Sam to tell if he’s talking about Gabriel, or about Dean. He’s not even sure if Castiel meant for Sam to hear his aborted remark at all.

Sam’s afraid to ask, but: “What do we do?”

Castiel’s shoulders bounce as he heaves a bitter laugh. “I don’t fucking know.”

Sam grinds his teeth. “You saw inside Gabriel’s head earlier while you were ordering his thoughts, right? Do you know where he’d go to hide? Maybe we can – ”

“Fuck Gabriel.”

“Cas,” Sam argues.

Castiel spins, holy wrath and fire in his eyes. They glow blue with it, the angel in him pushing through his retinas, clawing its way to the surface. 

“No, Sam. Fuck him. Fuck him and fuck everything else, too.”

Sam gulps, but he doesn’t waver. He refuses to lose ground in this fight, but Castiel doesn’t appear to be finished.

“When it needs them, the angels turn their backs on Earth. So did God. So did Michael. And now Gabriel,” he says.

“But they – ”

“My brothers, Sam. My  _father._ My father, who commanded us to always put this world before our own. I made a  _vow_ , Sam,” Castiel continues. 

His eyes flare impossibly brighter. It’s times like these when Sam is forced to remember that Castiel, though he pretends, is not really one of them.

Sam does take a step back now, now that he does remember. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know you did, Cas.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches in the hint of a snarl. “It is so thankless, so  _exhausting_ , being the only one who actually  _gives a shit_.”

He turns, glaring at the wall instead of Sam, passages littering the walls. “I am  _tired_ ,” Castiel hisses, through clenched teeth, “of being the only one who cares anymore. I am tired of being left  _behind._ ”

Sam watches hesitantly as, just like that, the fire dies from Castiel’s eyes. His palms, twitching like he’s itching to smite something, still and curl in on themselves. His head tips back, his mouth falling open. His shoulders droop and he slumps a little. 

He seems, inexplicably, a little smaller.

“I’m tired, Sam.” 

It’s uttered like a confession.

Sam, shaking, can only bring himself to nod.

“I know,” he replies, though his voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. 

“Look. Dean’s pissed, you’re – you’re upset. I’m a little worn out myself. It’s been a long day. Let’s all just…”

Castiel looks around at the characters strewn about the walls. He dims more and more by the second.  _Lonely_ , Sam thinks. This is the loneliest and most pitiful angel left alive, even if he is also the most stubborn.

“Let’s just get some rest for now,” Sam suggests, as gently as he can. “Ok?”

Castiel sighs. Sam is worried that he’s going to protest – or worse, melt into a puddle of sulk, unable to be moved – but instead he just nods. “Alright,” he says.

Sam blows out a breath, relieved. “Good. Ok. Just… you can lie down in here, if you want. Or, not. If this is – ”

He waves his hand in a vague gesture at the walls.

“Too much.”

Castiel shakes his head, and doesn’t respond. He turns his back to Sam again.

Sam runs the hand not supporting him on the doorframe through his hair. He blinks hard against the light that’s still dancing behind his eyes, the cold ice of angel grace.

“Will you tell him I’m sorry?”

Sam opens his eyes. He’s not entirely sure that he heard right. “Come again?”

Castiel doesn’t move. He doesn’t give any indication that he’s spoken at all, apart from the quiet request that comes forth once more. 

“Will you tell him I’m sorry.”

Sam breathes deep. He blinks, hard.

“No,” he says. “You can tell him. Once this blows over.”

At his side, one of Castiel’s hands clenches. He releases it slowly and doesn’t reply.

Sam pushes himself off of the threshold and steps back into the hallway, knees threatening to give out beneath him. The exhaustion of the day, the lingering fear and pain leftover from Asmodeus, the unsteadiness of his team collapsing in around him, it’s all too much for him to handle. 

He presses his palm out flat against the cool stone of the bunker’s walls as he rests for a moment in the hallway. The edges of his fingers brush against one of the dents that Castiel has left in his brief and minor rampage, tiles cracked and splintering under the force of his frustration. A shard wedges loose at Sam’s touch and falls to the floor with a quiet ‘clink,’ coming to rest by the toe of his boot.

Sam isn’t aware that he’s crying until a tear falls to join the lone fragment. He hunches in on himself and tries to stifle his hitching breath, and he’s only partially successful.

_Pull it together,_ he thinks to himself.  _Somebody in this family has to._

Sam draws himself up to his full height, though it pains him to do so. He walks like a condemned man back to the kitchen, where he knows he will find his brother.

 

Dean, predictably, has made himself a sandwich.

Sam knows without looking that it is probably a disgusting one. Sweaty lunchmeat. Some mustard. Thin and stale bread crushed from the roughness of his hands. Dean chews angrily, like he  _knows_ that this is the world’s shittiest sandwich, but also like he isn’t going to admit it. Maybe Sam should just be happy that he didn’t go straight for the alcohol.

“Hey,” Sam ventures.

Dean just grunts. He rips into his sandwich, too big of a bite to be healthy. The kind of too-much-to-chew that gets stuck in your throat and to the roof of your mouth. He’s not even sitting while he eats, just standing hunched over the counter with his raw ingredients strewn around him like an animal digging into a fresh kill.

(Sam spots the plastic deli bag of pastrami to the left of Dean’s elbow. He was right.)

“You, uh.”

“You want one?” Dean grumbles, mouth full.

Sam blinks. “What?”

“A sandwich, moron. You want one?”

Sam takes another few hesitant steps into the kitchen. “N… no?”

Dean does not acknowledge this answer. He merely stuffs his face again like he doesn’t already have food in his mouth. Like he isn’t already practically choking.

“I’m fucking starving,” Dean announces, growling like the very fact disgusts him. “Can’t fucking think like this.”

“Right,” Sam says. “Well, you’ve… had a long day.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to this. He wolfs down the rest of his sandwich and then grabs the bag of bread again before he even swallows. Begins assembling another one. It’s like he’s being timed, or racing himself.

Sam fidgets and takes a steadying breath. “Look. About what happened over the rift – ”

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Dean interrupts. He drags three slices of pastrami out of the bag and slaps them down onto another sorry slice of white bread. “I’m going to refuel the tank, I’m going to stitch up my shoulder, and then I’m going to drag that dick Gabriel back down here with a summoning spell. You can either help me or watch me.”

It pisses him off actually, yeah. Being sidelined. Being ordered around. It’s never sat well with Sam, not in his youth and certainly not now. He’s a grown man that’s been through some serious trauma today.

It’s only natural that a muscle ticks in Sam’s jaw. “Oh, really.”

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean spits. He doesn’t bother with condiments on this new sandwich. Just tears into bread and meat with no joy and no hesitation. “Really.”

Ok.

Sam strides right into Dean’s space without really thinking about it and glares at his face. Blindly, he snatches up the bottle of mustard that he just knewwas sitting there. Dean glares back as he does this, wilting sandwich held halfway to his mouth.

Sam makes sure not to break eye contact as he throws the bottle of mustard as hard as he can at the wall behind Dean’s head. It explodes in a satisfying burst of sunshine yellow that he can’t really even enjoy because he’s so  _angry_.

Why do they all have to be so destructive? Why can’t they help it, despite their best efforts?

“No, you’re not,” Sam says, low slow and deadly. He towers over Dean and makes use of it. “You’re going to get over yourself, march down to my room, and you’re going to talk to Cas.”

Dean doesn’t move. Neither does Sam. Someone has to be the strong one, and someone has to break.

“You are going,” Sam threatens, “to fix this.”

Dean slaps his sandwich down on the counter.

“Fine,” he hisses.

Dean walks away.

Sam, meanwhile, can’t bring himself to unclench after the sudden rush of adrenaline. He is absolutely shaking with rage, jaw screwed so tightly that he might actually grind his teeth into dust, and his cursed eyes are starting to water again.

He picks up Dean’s abandoned sandwich and takes a big, spiteful bite out of it. He ignores the mustard dripping down the opposite wall in wet, chunky globules.

As he chews, he tells himself,  _Good job, Sam_ , since no one else fucking will.

 

Dean does not find Castiel in Sam’s room.

The room is empty save the usual furnishings and some frankly concerning pictographs littering the walls. Dean only puzzles over these for a second before shaking his head and deciding that it isn’t worth the brain power, not after the day he’s had.

He feels himself losing steam more and more by the minute. He regrets the pastrami and white bread, sitting now like a rock in his stomach. He carefully shuts Sam’s door and turns down the hallway, heading towards the only place that Castiel might otherwise be.

The door to his own room is slightly ajar. Dean pushes it open with the tips of his fingers, holding his breath.

Castiel lays on his side of the bed, staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head. The lamp on his nightstand is off. The room is dark.

“Hey,” Dean says, gruff and unfair.

Castiel doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t take his eyes off the ceiling.

Dean steps into his room and shuts the door behind him. He goes through the usual routine of kicking off his boots, then removing his overshirt. He pours most of his frustration into these tasks and winces when he pulls at his shoulder. He undoes his belt and tosses it onto the desk. He pops the button on his jeans, but leaves them on. He clumsily crawls onto bed beside Castiel.

This whole time, Castiel does not move. He is frozen like a statue, unreal and untouchable. So Dean does not, actually, touch him. He lies there, staring at the ceiling and wishing apologies were a little easier.

“So, Gabriel, huh?” he murmurs at last.

Castiel exhales. “Oh, you’re talking to me now?”

Dean bites his tongue. “Figured now’s as good a time as any to start.”

Castiel scoffs. He moves the arm behind his head and touches two fingers to Dean’s arm, the injured one. Grace floods to the affected site, annihilating the toxin and banishing Ketch’s crude remedy. It’s painful, too fast, too much, and Dean hisses as it stings. His eyes water.

Castiel withdraws his hand. Dean half wishes he wouldn’t, half wants to shove him off the bed altogether and tell him to get lost.

“I’m not mad at  _you_ ,” Dean feels compelled to say, and it sort of catches him off guard. Because, while true, he hadn’t actually meant to say it.

Castiel grunts. “Well I  _am_ mad at you, so.”

Dean rolls onto his side to face Castiel, now that his shoulder isn’t hurting him. Castiel’s face is impassive, but Dean knows better. “Cas.”

Castiel turns his head at the request. Sadness pulls at their corners.

_I am tired of being the only one who cares anymore,_ he had shouted at Sam. Dean heard. And it’s not true, besides. 

He knows it’s not easy to be left behind. Maybe he’ll have the guts to tell Castiel that some day. But not today.

Dean leans up and kisses him, soft as he’s able. Castiel doesn’t move beyond subtly pursing his lips in response and shutting his eyes.

When he pulls away, Dean knocks his forehead against the angel’s.

“Help me sleep,” he pleads. “You can be mad at me in the morning.”

“It  _is_  the morning,” Castiel rumbles.

Dean ignores him. He keeps his eyes stubbornly closed.

His mind is still reeling, about Mom and Charlie and Jack and – fuck, fine, and Ketch. All of whom are still trapped on the other side of the rift while they’re essentially back at square one. Now that he’s burned off all the rage, only the self-loathing remains, dark and deep within him. His fault, his fault they’re in danger over there. Dean keeps his eyes closed against his intrusive thoughts and reaches instead for sleep.

He reaches for Castiel.

And though still tense beneath him, Castiel reaches back.


	20. 13.19 coda: "Full-Court Press"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my baby’s got anxiety, which means I’VE got anxiety.  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/173131190973/1319-coda-full-court-press)

“Well?”

Castiel slowly rises to his feet, not caring to brush the sand from his palms or where it clings to the front of his coat. This may be the last piece of Heaven he’ll have left for quite a while.

He turns. Indra lies prostrate and boneless on a nearby kiddie slide, bottle clutched to his chest like a bouquet for a corpse in a casket.

“Well what?” Castiel asks quietly. His voice comes out hoarse.

Indra sighs. His eyes, turned to the sky, don’t seek out Castiel’s. He stares blankly ahead as he asks in reply, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Castiel slowly approaches his brother, shoulders slumped. His footsteps feel heavier after being in Heaven - where all is weightless and comfortable - and the first few steps feel nearly impossible to take. 

“No,” he tells him. “Things are much worse than I feared.”

Indra nods. “Mm.” He lifts the bottle to his lips again. “Welcome to the end,” he says. He laughs. He raises his bottle in a silent toast, and then upends it into his mouth.

Castiel clenches a fist. 

“The end has not come yet,” he swears. “There is still a chance to save Heaven. Save Earth.”

Indra snorts. “A fool’s chance maybe.”

Castiel straightens. “Well, I pride myself on being the foolish one of the family.”

Indra does turn to look at him then, and Castiel forces himself to hold tall under the scrutiny. His tired eyes, his wrinkled coat, his shaken courage – he tries to disguise them all as best he can, grace flaring brightly in the plane beyond.

Indra merely shakes his head.

“You are a fool, Castiel,” he says, and he sounds sad when he says it. “But, Hell. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Castiel takes a deep breath through his nose. “Go home, Indra. Gather your strength. There is no reason to stay now that the doors are closing.”

With a sigh, Indra slides the rest of the way down the kiddie slide into the woodchips. He lays there for a moment, and grunts as he clumsily gets to his feet. A clumsy angel – there are certainly stranger things. Indra rights himself by clutching Castiel’s shoulders and blows out a pungent breath into his face. Castiel bears his weight.

“I hope – ” Indra says, pausing to hiccup. “I hope you’re lucky as you are dumb.”

Castiel sets his mouth. “Historically speaking, I’ve been pretty lucky.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He presses his bottle into Castiel’s hand. “Always wondered why it was you, anyway.”

With that, Indra vanishes, leaving Castiel standing alone in the playground.

He stands there for a moment more, in the deafening silence, and lets himself sag under the pressure at last.

He lifts Indra’s bottle to his lips and drains what’s left.

 

Bernard eventually bursts through the double doors, wild-eyed and staggering, and Rowena takes that as her cue to leave. But not without first squeezing Sam’s shoulder goodbye, and not without an oath and a wink to last them in the troubled times ahead.

The brothers each raise a hand in farewell from the parking lot as Rowena is chauffeured away, and only when her town car is over the horizon line does Dean comfortably turn back to the Impala. 

“Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

Sam glances down at his torn shirt. “Yeah.”

Dean grunts and opens the trunk.

“What do you think she meant back there?” Sam asks. He rubs a flat palm across his chest, wincing a little.

“Who?” Dean asks, trying his hardest not to pull the scabbing wounds on his face open afresh as he loads their gear back into the Impala.

“Billie,” Sam clarifies, stepping forward to help. He lends his own hands, and Dean lets him. “When she said, ‘See you soon.’”

Dean ticks his head to the side. He can hear his brains rattle if he listens hard enough. “Dunno. Trying not to think about it.”

Sam shuts the trunk with a definitive  _thunk_. 

“You never mentioned the notebooks,” he says. “You never told me that you know how you die.”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t. I  _don’t_ know. Like I said: I got a whole shelf. No way of knowing which book’s  _the_  book.”

“But – ”

“Everything ends, Sam,” Dean tells him. He raises a hand to his face and tests the tackiness of the blood drying against his temple with the pad of his middle finger. “I’d rather not know when or how.”

Sam swallows and twitches his nose. It’s not the answer he was hoping to hear, but then again, he really isn’t sure what he really wanted Dean to say. Dean’s phone chirps and Sam cuts off his own thoughts, shaking his head.

“‘S Cas,” Dean announces. He keeps his head down as he texts back a reply. His tongue sticks out a little between his teeth as his thumbs move infuriatingly slowly. “Says to meet him back at the bunker ASAP.”

Sam frowns. “Wonder what the hurry is.”

Dean also frowns. “I dunno, but he says he bought beer.”

“Definitely not a good sign.”

“Nope.”

They pile into the car and set their sights towards home.

 

“Cas?”

Castiel’s hands shake. “Kitchen,” he calls, probably too softly. He clears his throat and is about to repeat himself when Dean comes barreling in, Sam hot on his tail.

“Hey,” Dean says, in that placating, worried voice of his, the breathy kind that Castiel associates with care and love. “What happened with the angels?”

“You’re hurt,” Castiel observes, squinting. “What happened with Rowena?”

Dean waves a hand. Unnoticed by either of them, Sam moves behind Dean to grab an icepack from the freezer. He tosses it Dean’s way, who catches it in one hand, barely looking as he stands opposite of Castiel in the center of the room. “She had a bodyguard. A ‘highly trained military operative.’” He presses the icepack to his forehead.

Castiel frowns. “Why did you put that in air quotes?”

“Never mind,” Dean says. “You said you got beer?”

Castiel nods. He bends down to reach under the kitchen table, where he has dutifully stored what must be over a dozen individual six-packs of El Sol. He plunks one of them down on the table top and sniffs.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Well, ok.”

Castiel fidgets. He stuffs his hands in his coat pockets so Dean won’t see them shaking. “It’s worse than I thought,” he confesses. “It’s worse than I ever could have…”

Dean takes a step closer, ducking his head to catch Castiel’s eyes. “Hey. Breathe. Take a minute. Siddown.”

Castiel does breathe, though he doesn’t really need to – he’s an angel, he doesn’t need to waste his time with alcohol or breathing,he should be serving his dying Host before it all springs open like a glass jar dropped on the floor, how can he just  _sit_ here –

Dean guides Castiel to take a seat at the table with a broad hand across his shoulder. The touch is gentle, and entirely welcome; Castiel melts under it. Dean even joins him, sitting as close to Castiel as he dares. Their knees press together when Dean angles himself towards him on the bench.

“Cas,” Sam says warily, moving to stand in his sightline. “What do you mean, ‘It’s worse than you thought?’”

Castiel sags, leaning into Dean’s side a little. Dean lets him. “There are exactly eleven angels left alive in this universe.”

He doesn’t see Dean’s reaction to this news, but he does see Sam’s. The younger Winchester reels backwards like he’s suffered a physical blow. “Elev- eleven?”

“Eleven,” Dean repeats skeptically. “Like, one-one. Eleven.  _Total_.”

Castiel nods. “One of them is Naomi.”

Dean immediately stiffens. Castiel can feel the tension shoot through his body like a bolt of lightning. The ice pack crunches in his hand as his grip instinctively tightens. Sam is too far away but up this close, Castiel can hear it. “Naomi. Brainwashing – ”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel snaps. “That Naomi.”

Sam, apparently speechless, just gapes. Dean crunches the ice pack again.

“Guess I get why you bought the beer,” he mutters.

Castiel nods despondently, hanging his head. He leans harder into Dean’s side. Dean steadies him with a hand pressed against his spine, out of sight from Sam but undeniably strong.

Speechless and still reeling, Sam blinks owlishly at the both of them. “I’m going to… change,” Sam announces. “You should. You know. Wipe the blood off your face,” he says, in Dean’s direction.

Dean purses his lips. “Copy.”

“Ok,” Sam replies. “Uh. Let’s put a pin in this. We’ll regroup.”

“Yeah, man. Take a second. Hell, have a beer.”

Sam shakes his head and strides out of the room, tossing a few worried glances behind him as he goes.

Dean twists at the waist. He grunts as the bruises along his side twinge in protest, but it doesn’t stop him from taking two bottles out of the six-pack on the table behind them. The beer isn’t cold, but he doesn’t particularly care about that. 

“Here we are again,” Dean teases, holding one of the two bottles out for Castiel.

Castiel takes without hesitation it this time, flipping the cap off with his thumb. He tosses the bent piece of metal into the sink across the room with absolute perfect aim.

“Three-pointer,” Dean commends.

Castiel turns to look at him.

“It’s a sports term,” Dean reminds him.

Slowly, Castiel starts shaking his head. “Dean – ”

Dean sets his beer down on the table behind him. His eyes barely leave Castiel’s face. “Be real with me. You gonna be ok?”

Castiel absurdly thinks he might be tearing up. His chest feels too heavy, his hands tingle, he feels weak all over. He can’t really speak, can’t find the right words. Maybe screaming would help. Is this shock? He doesn’t know whether to drink his pain away like Indra or fly across the universe as fast as his scarred wings will take him in search of Gabriel. He’s overwhelmed just thinking about that prospect - there are so many places to look - but it’s what he must do, isn’t it?

“Cas,” Dean calls. “Hey. Back to earth, man, come on. Talk to me. Whatever happened up there, this is a safe place, you know? It’s just us.”

It is. This is the safest place that Castiel knows. Here, in this kitchen, hidden away underground and warded, seated beside Dean Winchester, might just be his favorite place in the world. It’s the place his troubled mind takes him time and time again when he needs shelter. If he is ever to be deserving of a home, he would count this as it.

_Everything ends, Castiel._

Abruptly, Castiel stands. Dean’s eyes follow him as he does, some deep emotion clouding over them. They look very green from this vantage point, overhead lights shining down directly on them, the red blood contrasting against his skin.

Castiel reaches out his fingers and heals him with a touch to the forehead. Dean blinks at him, looking up at him still with… with some kind of –

“I have to go,” Castiel announces. “I have to start looking for Gabriel. There is so little time and there is so much ground to cover – ”

“Cas, whoa,” Dean interrupts, rising to his feet as well. “Been there, done that. With God, remember? Scouring the earth is not the best way to go about this.”

“I have to start somewhere,” Castiel despairs.

Dean holds his hands, palms flat. “You heard Sam, right? We’ll regroup. I’m sorry about Heaven, Cas, but we can’t just rush into – ”

“Heaven is going to  _collapse_ ,” Castiel hisses, “Without angels to keep it running. It will be  _chaos_.”

Castiel suddenly finds Dean too close in his space.

He takes a shaky breath out. “Everything is falling apart,” he says. A crack runs through his voice, stealing the words away. His breath hitches. “Dean, everything – ”

Dean grabs two fistfuls of Castiel’s coat. Castiel brings his hands up around Dean’s wrists and holds them, just holds on. Not with the intent to hurt or remove or draw closer. He just holds himself down right here to this moment.

He needs a reminder of what is real right now. And Dean? And home? Is real.

Dean knocks their foreheads together. 

“Listen to me,” he murmurs. “You can’t start losing it, man. We need you down here. I need you.”

A desperate noise escapes Castiel’s throat. “I  _know_ ,” he says. 

And he does; that’s part of the problem. He is being torn in too many different directions and cannot throw himself fully into any of them.

If he’s not careful, if he doesn’t make the right choices, he will lose everything he knows. This universe and Earth, Heaven and Host, the bunker and Dean. Where will he go? What will become of him then?

What will become of any of them if he fails?

But all these thoughts fly from his mind when he feels the soft press of Dean’s lips against his. Under that gentle pressure, his hands finally still. He doesn’t kiss back, but he feels – for once – at peace.

Dean’s eyes slip closed as he coaxes Castiel back to life under his hands, with such aching tenderness. When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far.

“Don’t – don’t – ” Castiel tries to say. He gives up and sighs.

Dean moves his head and brushes their noses together. Castiel can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “We got this.”

Castiel snorts. “We most definitely do  _not ‘_ got this,’” he replies.

“Well, you’ve got me.”

Castiel sighs in the space between them. “I know. I know that.”

They stand together for a moment, breathing and settling, before Dean shakes him lightly. Castiel releases Dean’s wrists and they separate, just a little steadier than before. Castiel wipes self-consciously under his eyes, even though they’re dry.

“Ok,” Dean announces, clapping his hands. He walks away from Castiel, towards the table again. “Now I  _really_ need a drink.”

Castiel breathes out. “So what now?” he asks.

Dean shrugs, taking up his abandoned beer as he sits. His kicks his feet up on the seat across from him. “Now we wait for Sam to get back.” He takes a long sip.

It’s such a simple thing to say. The next step, so small in the scheme of things: wait for Sam. 

Miraculously, Castiel finds himself capable of a smile. 

That is surely no insurmountable task. He can wait for Sam. And he can do the thing that comes next. And the thing after that, too. It’s manageable if you break it up into small enough components. The world will not come crashing down in the time that it takes for Sam Winchester to return with a clean shirt.

Castiel nods. “Ok. We wait for Sam.”

Dean nods. “Atta boy.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Full-court press.”

Dean beams up at him. “Exactly.”

Castiel holds his hesitant smile, and takes a seat beside Dean at the table once more. Dean reaches down to squeeze his knee, and they drink their beers together in silence.

Everything ends. But it won’t be today, and it won’t be this. Not if they can help it.


	21. 13.23 coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we've come full circle, y'all. What a ride. Thank you, Season 13!  
> Find this coda on tumblr [here.](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/174016812518/1323-coda)

_“[I rebelled for ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8rIv6bA2qDg&t=MGRkOTAxNzI2ZjJlMWRiZmQxODRhY2ZhYTY0NGY3YTQwNzgxY2YzNCxsRXhRN0EzTA%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F174016812518%2F1323-coda&m=1)_ ** _[this?](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8rIv6bA2qDg&t=MGRkOTAxNzI2ZjJlMWRiZmQxODRhY2ZhYTY0NGY3YTQwNzgxY2YzNCxsRXhRN0EzTA%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F174016812518%2F1323-coda&m=1) _ ** _”_

_With thunder and wrath and all that he was._

_“So that you could surrender to them?”_

_Another blow. Punch and punch to the soft, squishy guts._ _So fragile._

_Frustration and fear in equal measure, manifest as force._

_Castiel twisted his borrowed hands, still foreign to him, into the thin material of Dean’s jacket, pinning him to the rough face of the brick wall. He clenched them until the tiny bones cracked and the joints popped with pressure. Ichor boiled into magma. He paid it no heed._

_Castiel leaned in close, and Dean turned his head away from him, blood pooling to the surface of his lips. Like wine, like a sacrament. Like something sacrificially holy._

_“I gave everything for you,” Castiel hissed at him. “And this is what you give to me.”_

Here’s the thing: hope is difficult to manage.

It’s what he’s known for, really. In the past decade that he’s spent away from Heaven, Castiel has taken it as his task to find whatever sliver of a chance there is for survival, for happiness, for a better world that there is, and defend it. Despite any and all odds stacked against him. His brothers and sisters have condemned him for this tendency, tried to condition it out of him, called him a fool, called him worse things, dismissed him, even hated him for it. He has heard countless times from countless faces that his efforts to fight on the side of the humans – a doomed and dying breed – for the fate of the Earth – too perfect to last – are nothing but in vain. That his misplaced faith and expectations would lead him only to ruin.

And it is true; hope is a painful business. Much of the time it leads only to bitter disappointment, and hurt the likes of which no angel has had to endure before. He knows. That moment in the alley when Dean first considered saying “yes”to Michael was the first time that Castiel really felt heartbreak at the hands of hope. He doesn’t think he dealt with it particularly well at the time, but he didn’t really know what he was in for then. He finds himself thinking about it now, curled in on himself on the threshold of his only home, hands limp where they hang in the empty air.

At his core, Castiel believes in surprises. He believes in the not-believed, because to be honest God was a shitty craftsman and Creation is entropic, and he has seen the irrational triumph despite the petty rules of logic. He has beaten them himself. As a strategist and as a being with too much heart, Castiel believes in hope.

And there had been a moment there, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with allies in an underground bunker, when Castiel had dared to be hopeful. 

In pleasant company of friends once thought lost to time and circumstance, his face had stretched into an easy smile and he felt deeply content. He had let his guard down enough to relax and thought to himself,  _See?_   _It is not so foolish to take chances when this is the reward._

He’s paying for that now. But at least he’s not hurting anybody over it.

In fact, now that it’s finally happened – his worst fears and his biggest failure come true, Dean Winchester saying  _yes_ – he doesn’t move at all. It is as if the fight has left him all at once, all in one fell swoop. Dean said “yes,” and his final exhalation of breath took all of Castiel’s with it.

Michael will not honor the deal he struck. This, at the very least, Castiel knows.

“Castiel?” Mary asks, too close to his ear.

His lower lip trembles. He doesn’t speak.

“Where are they?” Mary asks him. Her voice tries to hold firm, but it shakes despite her best efforts. “Castiel, where are my boys?”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even breathe. Any movement at all is too much and more than he deserves. But Mary does deserve an answer. 

“I don’t know,” he manages. The words come out in a mumble that might not be entirely English. It’s a minor miracle that Mary understands him at all.

“What do you mean, ‘You don’t know?’” she asks him, not harsh and mean but scared. In the voice of a mother. At her shoulder, Bobby Singer is already tapping away on his phone, keying in Dean’s phone number. Castiel can hear it ringing, and he does nothing to help. He listens to the phone ring, and ring, and ring, knowing that Dean will not pick up.

Despite what he stands for, he cannot muster up any hope that he ever will.  _There is no hope here_ , Castiel despairs.  _Not even a sliver of it._ Michael has his sword, and Castiel has a broken heart in trembling hands. He has, paradoxically, a lack. He has an absence, a hope-less-ness. He has an empty hole where his love should be.

 _I gave everything for you,_ he hears himself say, what feels like an age ago.  _And this is what you give to me._

“What if you had your sword?” Dean had asked.

The words sunk in around Castiel like ice water, paralyzing and overwhelming. “Dean, no.”

But Dean barreled on, ignoring him. “I am your sword,” he told Michael. “Your perfect vessel. With me, you’d be stronger than you’ve ever been.”

And Michael had smirked, even with blood dripping from his eyes, even low to the ground as he was. “Oh, I know what you are.”

“If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?”

And even knowing where this was going, Castiel couldn’t follow. He stayed rooted to his spot, disbelieving. “Dean,” he objected.

“Can we?” Dean persisted.

Michael nodded, and sealed his fate. “We have a chance,” he promised.

Castiel finally jolted into motion. In a few strides he came to Dean’s back, stiff with tension, and snarled with a familiar fury. “Dean, you  _can’t_.”

Dean reeled around, and Castiel only saw his own terror reflected back in his eyes.

“Lucifer has Sam,” he said. “He has Jack. Cas, I don’t have a choice!”

And isn’t that rich, coming from Dean Winchester, the man who taught Castiel that  _we always have a choice_. Castiel stood before him in silence, in utter shock and horror at the words having left his lips.

This was not the same man, he realized suddenly, that stood before him ten years ago and called him a hammer. This was a man that lost too much and had drawn a line in the sand; his brother died in front of him not even a week ago and the loss had made him raw.

It made him  _desperate._

“If we do this,” Dean said, turning away from Castiel and back to Michael, “it’s a one-time deal. I’m in charge. You’re the engine, but I’m behind the wheel. Understand?”

“Of course,” Michael replied, too easily to be sincere.

In a moment of his own desperation, Castiel reached out and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turned, and his hands clenched into fists. His mouth and his eyes were set, hardened as if from stone. “Cas, if you’re gonna fight me on this – ”

And in another life, another time, he would have. But here, and now, they are different people. This is a different time.

Castiel leans in close, in full view of the archangel, and presses his lips to Dean’s.

And Dean, blessed and beautiful and so so sad, melts for just a moment. For this brief second he is  _his_ , he is Castiel’s, not the world’s and not his brother’s and certainly not Michael’s. He sags under the weight of Castiel’s hand, pressed now to its familiar touchstone, and his eyes slip closed. His mouth goes slack and sweet, and Castiel savors this, all they could have had together, all that the future never promised them but that they dared to hope for anyway. 

He pours all of his devotion, simmering beneath his skin for ten long years, into this point of contact.

It kills him to do it, but he pulls back from the kiss too quickly and hopes that Dean can see it on his face when he says, “Ok.”

Dean blinks at him, battered and sluggish. 

They aren’t going to fight. They don’t do that anymore.

Castiel will not raise a hand to this man, beloved, in anger ever again. He made up his mind about that [years ago](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DID3Ogn9aVcc&t=MDk1MTc5MmUwMTViOWFjMTZlM2Q2ZTk5MTJjOWEyYzZlMzVkMDI4ZixsRXhRN0EzTA%3D%3D&b=t%3ACrFuYjT2BKdYepXqH48PTQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Fozonecologne.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F174016812518%2F1323-coda&m=1).

Michael coughs behind them, spewing up blood as he does. “Touching. But can we hurry along?”

Dean starts to turn, to address him to his face and without fear, but Castiel holds him steady. His other hand, the one not on Dean’s shoulder, shoots up to cup his face, fingers curling around the bone of his jaw.

Dean lets himself be turned. He looks right into Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel stares back.

“Say it to me,” Castiel tells him, voice hoarse. “Tell me you’ll come back. Tell me you’ll come home.”

Dean never looks away. He breathes deep.

To both of the angels in the room, Dean says, “Yes.”

He doesn’t need to, but Castiel closes his eyes as Michael’s light overtakes the room. His lips part around a quiet sigh and he squeezes his eyes firmly shut, hands on Dean’s body like he can’t make himself let go. He keeps his eyes shut until the air stops humming, and the smell of lightning striking flesh has faded into something bearable.

A gentle touch falls on Castiel’s wrist where it is pressed to Dean’s face.

Castiel opens his eyes.

Dean’s eyes are flat and cold, but they still never leave Castiel’s. He curls his fingers around Castiel’s wrist with such care, such delicacy, and guides his hand away. Castiel’s fingers fall away from his skin with a quiet rasp, and he lets them. It is impossible to know who is in control as, impassively, Dean takes a step back. Castiel stares at the distance between them in agony. He doesn’t dare ask who he’s looking at.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to. Dean’s face twitches just for a second, just long enough for Michael to squeeze in a parting shot.

“You’re a fool, Castiel.”

And then, in a flash of blood-tipped feathers, he’s gone.

 

As Mary shouts a new order at Bobby, as Bobby punches in another cell number into the useless phone in his hands, as Maggie glances between them both with that new haunted look of hers –

 _Yes_ , Castiel thinks.  _I am a fool._

He isn’t sure there’s any other way to be.

“We’ve got Sam,” Bobby announces, turning his head away from the speaker. “Boy, slow down,” he says into the phone.

Mary sags in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

Maggie swallows. “I hope they’re ok,” she murmurs.

Castiel remains still as a statue where he sits on the floor. He stares blankly at the space where Dean last stood. His lips are dry. 

 _Hope,_ he thinks, wryly.

If there is a more difficult thing, Castiel hasn’t yet found it.


End file.
